The Recovery
by jeanie2914
Summary: Neal agrees, against Peter's better judgement, to work undercover as Nick Halden to help agents from another division snag a killer. The plan is a simple one; but since when does anything go according to the plan?
1. Chapter 1

_re·cov·er·y rəˈkəv(ə)rē/_

_noun 1. a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength._

_2\. the action or process of regaining possession or control of something believe to be lost. _

_If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. This is less hurt/comfort than some of my stories, but still, Neal WILL be hurt and Peter WILL comfort him. That's just how I roll. _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter One **

"Do you have any idea the kind of trouble I can get into for this?" Dr. Martin knew it was a rhetorical question and that his protest would fall on deaf ears. And he was correct. The look that Jacobs gave him told him there would be more trouble for him if he didn't cooperate. He had unfortunately been down this road before. Not the exact road, but one that followed the same general direction. It always ended with Dr. Martin trading his professional integrity for his personal security. He sighed, bag in hand, and approached the man on the bed who needed his attention.

Even though there had been efforts to stench the flow, the man had lost a lot of blood. He was suffering from a gunshot wound in his shoulder; a gunshot wound that Jacobs couldn't chance being reported. Jacobs was a bad man and Dr. Martin regretted having ever fallen under his control. For this reason, he withheld his own judgement of the injured man. Sometimes trouble had a way of sneaking up on a person, especially when dealing with the likes of Jeffrey Jacobs. Jacobs had recently made enemies with his former partners and had been desperate to liquidate a certain asset for cash to make his escape. The bright side for Dr. Martin was that Jacobs would be out of his life, once and for all. But there had obviously been complications; now local law enforcement was also hot on Jacob's tail and the man who had been going to turn the asset into cash was unconscious. Dr. Martin began to check his patient's wound and spoke to the lady still standing in the doorway. "Margo, I need some hot water and towels."

It was through Margo that he had gotten involved with Jacobs. She worked at the Clinic with him and when he had gotten in over his head with some gambling debts, she had found a way to get him out. It was a simple trade, she said. She knew someone who occasionally needed someone patched up and who had the power to make his debts disappear. She had helped him with small stuff, but Martin could help with the more serious things. Plus, he had access to medicine and equipment that she did not. Martin had declined the offer at first, but when collectors began threatening with physical violence it seemed like a reasonable trade. He would be using his skills to help people, after all. He just wouldn't be reporting suspicious injuries to the local authorities. A small compromise to keep his fingers in working order seemed like a good idea.

With Margo's return and assistance, he removed the man's blood-soaked shirt and began to clean the wound. He was young and reasonably well fit; that was a plus. There was no exit wound; that was not. The bullet was still lodged in the man's body and would have to come out. It wasn't the same as cleaning and stitching up minor wounds or setting broken bones which had been the extent of his assistance to Jacobs in the past. He expressed his concern, just as he had when Jacobs had shown up at his house to fetch him, but Jacobs didn't care then and he didn't care now.

After the cleaning and disinfecting, Martin spent the next forty five minutes digging the bullet out of a man who occasionally groaned in spite of the shot of pain killers he had been injected with. When it was done, Martin bandaged him and washed his hands.

"He needs a IV to replenish his fluids and antibiotics to fight infection," he looked at Jacobs. "This wasn't the most sterile place to perform this procedure."

"When will he wake up?" Jacobs was looking impatiently at the still man. He only had one thing on his mind and it wasn't the health of the injured man.

"When the tranquilizers wear off," Martin answered, "but he will not be in any condition to do what you needed him to do. My best advice is to keep him sedated, continue to inject him with antibiotics, for at least the next twenty four hours." He shrugged his shoulders. "His body has sustained a shock. It needs some time to recover. If he gets though that without complications then maybe, and I say _maybe_, he will be able to do what you need him to do." Dr. Martin reiterated that the man needed hospitalization, but started his prescribed course of treatment, starting the IV line in the man's arm. Injecting someone with drugs with no idea of allergies was a dangerous thing to do. He stayed with the man for nearly an hour, past the time he would have expected any adverse reaction, before he gave Margo his parting thoughts.

She was given a schedule for administering medications, an extra saline bag and supplies for wound care. Martin also gave her clear instructions on what to watch for in case the man's condition worsened. "I don't care what you do to me, Jacobs," he said to Jeffrey Jacobs, "I will not be responsible for the death of this man. If he gets worse, send him to the emergency room. Do not call me." He was afraid, as usual, that his warning carried little weight. If the man took a turn for the worse, his body would probably be found dumped somewhere.

But the man's vitals seemed amazing strong; If all went well, he would have improved in twenty four hours. At that time Martin would return for a reassessment. He pursed his lips and looked at the ashen man on the bed. He wanted the man to recover; not only because he genuinely cared about people, but because if he did, perhaps he could broker a deal that would make Jacob's go away for good. Dr. Martin wanted his life, and his integrity, back.


	2. Chapter 2

_Short chapter but that is just how it turned out. Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing my story!_

_If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Two **

"What do you mean you _lost _him?" Peter Burke could hardly contain his anger. Why did this kind of thing continue to happen? Was there no one in the entire law enforcement community other than him that could work with Neal Caffrey?

"Burke," Agent Koffman said, aware of the rage emitting from the man standing in front of him, "The NYPD blew our operation. Caffrey and our two suspects escaped out the back of the restaurant. He's not wired and he's not wearing the tracking device."

"Escaped out the back." Peter repeated, his mind going where it always went with first instinct, but only for a second. He shook his head. "No, he _wanted_ this case," he reminded the men "If they barged in, in the middle of a deal, he is probably trying to find a way to save it. He's done this kind of thing before."

"I don't think so-" Koffman held up his hand at the look on Burke's face and spoke quickly "Look Burke, I am not implying that he ran. We _like_ Caffrey," he paused looking at his partner who nodded in agreement. He knew his next words wouldn't be received well. "Shots were fired. Someone was hit."

"Caffrey?" They hadn't only lost his CI but had let him get shot? Peter's anger grew. Anger was an easier emotion to handle than the other one that now threatened to take over. Neither man answered, "Was Neal hit?" he asked again.

"We don't know for sure, Burke," This time it was Edwards who spoke. "We know if was one of them. Caffrey and Jacobs have the same blood type…"

"Blood type?" Blood was on the scene. "How bad?" Fear officially passed anger. "How much blood?"

"Good amount," Edwards admitted. "Left a trail out the back. But whoever was hit was still conscious and was helped out by the other two." Okay, that was a good sign.

"Whoever was hit," Peter repeated, "and you don't know if it was Neal?" Burke saw the two men exchange glances. Edwards seemed to want to toe the line at _we aren't sure_ but Koffman's expression was different. Peter saw his own concern mirrored in the man's eyes.

"You think it was Neal, don't you?" Apparently there had been no round table to flip, hide behind, and roll out of the line of fire in that particular establishment.

"Jacobs and Caffrey are roughly the same height and coloring, but some of the witnesses seem to describe Caffrey," he smiled faintly "the female witnesses."

"They would be the ones to notice him," Peter admitted with a sigh, then "His phone, did he have a phone with him?"

Edwards shook his head, pulling a phone from his pocket. "It was in his jacket-left at the scene."

"Damn," Peter said under his breath. If it were that simple Koffman and Edward's wouldn't be standing in the White Collar office facing his wrath. They would be finding his lost CI.

When he had agreed to let Neal go with Koffman, he had only known the basics: Koffman needed Neal to pose as Nick Halden in order to authenticate a stolen piece of art. Peter had said no almost before the conversation was able to even get underway. Neal's track record at being loaned to other agents hadn't been exactly stellar. But Koffman, who seemed to genuinely respect Neal's ability, was not discouraged and Neal was eager to help. Between the two of them, Peter had been persuaded to withdraw his objections. After that, he wasn't kept in the loop as to the details of the operation. That had been two days ago. Now Neal was missing. Not only missing, but hurt. He sat down and looked at the men.

"Okay, tell me everything," He said.


	3. Chapter 3

_re·cov·er·y rəˈkəv(ə)rē/_

_noun 1. a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength._

_2\. the action or process of regaining possession or control of something believe to be lost. _

_If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. I am posting early because I am going to have a crazy weekend. Thanks for reading and reviewing my story. It really makes a difference in my day, and in my drive to continue to write. So thanks to all of you for bringing such fun into my life. Enough of that MUSHY stuff..._

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility**. **_

**Chapter 3 **

Neal was missing; for the next half hour Koffman and Edwards explained to an irate Peter Burke how that had happened. They filled Peter in on the details of the case, what their plan had been, and how the plan had fallen apart.

Jeffrey Jacobs was suspected of several crimes, and had been under investigation for some time. Recently, there had been an escalation of hostility between he and one of his former business associates. It had became clear to Jacobs that he needed a hasty relocation in order to save his life. Short on cash, he had orchestrated what he thought would be an easy score to generate funds to get out of town. That fast score had involved a simple smash and grab that resulted in murder. That murder had orphaned two teenaged boys; their mother having died of cancer four years earlier. Nabbing Jacobs in possession of the stolen art would tie him to the crime. Koffman had come to Peter, asking to 'borrow' White Collar's CI for a few days. Koffman knew that Jacobs would be trying to move the art. He wanted Neal to pose as a fence who could unload the painting, but more importantly he needed someone with the skill to authenticate it. He knew Neal Caffrey had that skill set. Peter hadn't wanted to go along with it. Neal's track record at being loaned to other agents hadn't been exactly stellar. But at the look on Neal's face when he learned about the victim's boys, Peter knew Neal would be determined to help. And he was correct. Neal pointed out that this was a perfect fit for Nick Halden. Peter still hadn't been convinced, but Koffman seemed like a good agent and Neal wanted to do it. So Peter had relented.

"This was just the preliminary meet," Koffman explained. "Caffrey was going to discuss the arrangements and tell them he would have to authenticate the painting before he would be willing to contact potential buyers. For that, we would have wired him. Once he confirmed that the painting was the one we were looking for, we would have went in and that would have been that."

Peter wasn't surprised to hear the plan had been Neal's. It was something they had done many times before. "Jocobs still needs him, Burke," Edwards said in an attempt of reassurance. "They will get him medical help; he needs him to find a buyer for the painting."

"They aren't going drop him at urgent care," Peter remarked, "They are going to find someone shady to come to him. Any ideas who Jacobs would go to?"

"We are working our contacts," Koffman said uneasily. Translation? The man had no idea. Peter would work his _own_ contacts. Koffman continued, "The truth is that right now, he's is on his own."

"With a bullet in him," Peter said.

"Yeah," Koffman said. "Look, Burke, I know Caffrey's resourceful. But he's also hurt and has no backup. What do you think he will do, what _can_ he do?"

That was it. That was why Koffman and Edwards were in his office. Because he knew Neal Caffrey better than anyone and they needed to know what the man was going to do. Was the operation still viable? Or had it gone down in gunfire just like Neal had? He _did_ know Neal. He thought about it for a moment.

"If they need a buyer, and he is physically able, he will find them a buyer." He said slowly.

"But we have nothing set up," Edwards protested, "That was never part of the plan."

The look Peter sent him silenced him. "Trust me, Neal will adapt the plan."

"But how can he without back up, without resources?" Edward's asked.

Peter smiled, "Mozzie."

The men looked confused. "What's a _mozzie_?"

"A resource of his own."


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to all who are reading my story. I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility._

**Chapter Four **

The first thing Neal became aware of was a low humming noise, and then the sound of steady traffic somewhere outside of his location. He didn't feel any pain at first; just an incredible weight. It felt like his body-arms, legs, everything- weighed five hundred pounds, and that weight pressed him into the bed beneath him to the point that movement was impossible. After a couple futile attempts, he concentrated simply on opening his eyes. Even that was a challenge; his eyelids felt as if they were filled with lead. As moments passed, he then became aware of the pain. Not blinding pain but a deep penetrating ache that radiated throughout his chest. His chest, like the rest of his body, felt heavy, and breathing was difficult. Memory flooded his groggy mind; He had been shot. He had been meeting with Jeffrey Jacobs, something had happened, and he had been shot. The memory of gunfire, and intense pain shooting through his body rushed back. His eyes did open. In panic.

"Hey, blue eyes." It was a female voice, and he heard the sound of a chair scooting across a wooden floor.

He tried to move his head to see its source, but it was still too heavy. That she knew his eyes were blue was a troubling thing. He hoped it had been a pupil checking thing and not that he had actually opened his eyes and looked at her at some point and didn't remember it. That would not be good. Unable to see the person who spoke, he looked at the first thing in his line of sight: the ceiling. It was clear he wasn't in a hospital. There was a crack that crept along the ceiling's surface, extending from a nondescript light fixture across to a large window. Heavy drapes were drawn across it, making the room dim. He was unsure if it was light or dark outside. He was in a hotel room or small apartment. And not one that was up to his usual standards, either. His eyes found the source of the humming noise; there was an IV machine beside him. A clear bag hung there, with tubes extending to his arm. It sadly wasn't the first time he had been treated for injuries in such a location, but it had been a while. A woman stepped into his line of sight. She was probably only a few years older than he, but life had aged her and hardened her once soft features. She looked nice enough, but he only studied her face a moment. When she produced a syringe, that immediately took his attention. He tried to raise his hand to ward her off, but his best efforts only resulted in a brief flutter at his side. Having someone coming at him with a needle and no way to defend himself cause a flood of panic.

It must have translated into his face because when she spoke, she seemed to try to comfort him. "It's okay," she said, grabbing the IV line, making preparations to inject the contents directly into it. "This will make you feel better."

Neal tried to speak, to protest and ask where he was, but his voice was as uncooperative as the rest of his body. He only sound he managed was a weak groan.

"I know you are in pain," she said sympathetically, confusing his emotional distress for physical pain. There was pain, but the distress at his situation was greater. She finished the task as she spoke, "This has worked pretty fast on you before."

This implied that he had awakened in pain before, and he had no memory of that. Again, this was concerning.

"Now you'll sleep," she said. "When you wake up again, hopefully, you will be stronger." She checked the site where the IV entered his arm. She seemed both efficient and satisfied. "Rest, Mr. Halden," she said, adjusting the blanket that covered him. Then she met his eyes. "The sooner Jeffrey gets what he wants from you, the better off you will be."

When she spoke, her voice was kind but Neal sensed an underlying warning. She was on a first name basis with Jacobs; she knew what kind of person he was. She had called him Mr. Halden. This meant his cover was still intact regardless of his incomplete memory since the shooting. How long had that been? A day? More? Jacobs needed him to move the stolen painting; that was why he had brought him here and gotten him medical help. Jacobs would not wait long on him to recuperate. But right now he was useless.

Useless people were not kept around. This was not only true in Jacob's world; in Neal's experience, it was in true the world in general as well. Especially for people like him who were kept around only as long as they remained useful. And right now he wasn't useful. Not to Jacobs; not to Koffman or the FBI. That realization increased his anxiety, but it only plagued him a few moments before the medicine the woman had injected into his IV line started to take effect. He began to feel a strange sensation move over him. It was a warmth that moved up his body, up the back of his neck and closed in around his mind. It brought relief from his anxiety, his pain, and even the twinge of fear that he kept pushing to the back of his mind. As the warm feeling grew, bringing comfort, his eyes closed. He listened to the sound of the humming; the sound of traffic on the road outside. He felt himself relax. He found he no longer cared that he was of no use to anyone; he didn't care that he was hooked up to an IV machine in a dingy, unsanitized room. He didn't even care that he had been given unknown medication by a strange woman. Instead of feelings of helplessness and anxiety, something unfamiliar settled over him. Peacefulness. He felt peace. With that, he slept.


	5. Chapter 5

_I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility. Thanks for reading and for reviewing. It helps keep me motivated!_

Chapter Five

When he woke the next time, the feeling of comfort and peacefulness were definitely gone. Not only was there a sudden rush of anxiety as he remembered his predicament, but there was also pain. In addition to those things, men were arguing nearby. He recognized the voice of Jacobs; the other man he didn't know.

"I have given it all the time I can," Jacobs said, his voice was tense. "I need Halden to be awake and functioning. You need to wake him up; no more pain medication until I talk to him."

Neal knew he was the man who needed to be awake and functioning, and he guessed the man that was speaking with Jacobs was a doctor of some kind. He was awake; functioning, he wasn't sure about. His mind was foggy, probably from the pain medication Jacobs was demanding be stopped.

"I understand," the other man said, "but I can't just wake him up. He is running a fever in spite of the antibiotics. He needs to be in a hospital."

"That can come later," Jacobs answered, "If he does what I need him to do. Halden in this condition is of no use to me. And if you can't improve his condition, then _you_ are equally of no use." Jacob's voice grew soft, but there was no gentleness there. "I think you know by now Dr. Martin, that when people are of no use to me, they have no value. And things of no value are disposed of." There was a coldness in his voice that Neal hadn't heard before, but it didn't surprise him nor did his words. It took coldness to kill a father of two over a painting. He heard fear in the other man's voice.

"Jacobs," he said, "I have done everything you have asked of me. I am not a miracle worker; He needs more time."

"I have no more time," Jacob's voice rose in his own fear, but he quickly regained composure "and neither do you. _Either of you_." He paused, "You said you became a doctor to save lives; here is your chance to save his and your own: Wake. Him. Up."

The threat was clear. If awake and functioning was what Jacobs wanted; that was what he would give him. The pain wasn't unbearable, and the incredible heaviness from last time wasn't as pronounced. He tried to move his hand and this time succeeded. The mysterious woman had said he would feel stronger, and he did. He opened his eyes.

"Halden," Jacobs saw his eyes open immediately and stepped past the man he had been talking to and move closer to Neal. "Good to see you have decided to join us." He both looked and sounded irritated. Neal felt certain he would be able to put Jacobs at ease quickly. He was good at that; it was his skill. However when he opened his mouth to use that skill, he only croaked. The doctor approached the bed with a look of relief. "Get him some water," he said to Jacobs.

Dr. Martin helped him raise up. The movement awakened his pain; a sharp pain that caused him to instantly grit his teeth, breaths coming quickly in spite of his effort to keep himself under control. The glass was put to his lips; the water wasn't cold, but it was enough to moisten his dry lips and throat. After the second sip, he was eased back down on the pillow. Just that movement had weakened him; he could feel tremors in his body. This might be harder than he had thought. Ignoring the pain that was enveloping his torso, he concentrated on relaxing his face and taking slow, easy breaths. Gasping in pain would not give the impression of functionality he was going for. He needed to convince Jacobs he could help him; could pick up where he had left off at the meeting like nothing had happened. The sooner he could do that, the sooner he could wrap up this case, and the safer he and the doctor would be. He took a slow, steady breath and turned his head to meet Jacobs hard eyes.

"Well," He said, stopping in horror at the weakness of his voice. He cleared his throat and spoke again, this time concentrating on projecting. "That meeting didn't go as I had planned."

"Not the way I had planned, either," Jacobs admitted. "Before the interruption, you seemed confident that you could find me a buyer and that still needs to happen, Mr. Halden, and it needs to happen fast."

His being shot was just an interruption? "Of course," Neal said, "Help me sit up." It was hard to appear confident while lying flat on one's back.

The doctor looked at him skeptically but Jacobs obliged, and when he leaned Neal forward, Dr. Martin placed two pillows behind him. Neal reclined as nonchalantly as possible against them. Even though he could feel sweat breaking out on his body, he kept his reaction to the pain from his face. He busied his hands with adjusting the blanket; holding on to something steadied his shaking hands. The pause was slight.

His voice surprised even him with its ease. "I will need to see your piece first, of course, and then I will be happy to make a few calls." He smiled his most accommodating smile.

The look of relief in Jacob's face was clear. "I will bring the painting to you tonight," Jacobs said, "How soon can you make some contacts?"

"After I verify the painting, as soon as you can get me a phone," Neal replied good-naturedly. "I seem to have misplaced mine."

"And how quickly can we close the deal?", he pressed, "When I say it needs to happen fast, Mr. Halden, I am not exaggerating." The man's impatience was something Neal could use to his advantage.

"I am confident I can set something up quickly," Neal paused, "It can happen quicker if you allow me some leeway with the meeting location."

At Jacob's look Neal explained, "I have a buyer in mind, and I think he will jump at the opportunity. He is one of the few people I know who can get his hands on that amount of cash fast. But he is a little…." He paused, "Paranoid."

Neal's imaginary buyer, well he wasn't exactly imaginary because he was based on Mozzie, wasn't the only paranoid one. Jacob frowned.

"I am not comfortable with that, Mr. Halden."

"I understand," Had he not been injured, he would have shrugged to indicate that it really didn't matter to him who chose the meeting place.

Of course, it did matter. "I just wanted to offer that option since it would result in a much faster conclusion to our business."

"How much faster?" Desperate people made concessions.

"If I can reach him tonight, I would say by mid afternoon tomorrow." Neal's concentration on playing a role had helped, but the pain was starting to become an issue. He needed to motivate Jacob's to action. He needed the man to leave the room so he could regroup. He needed the man to retrieve the painting. "The sooner I can see the painting, the sooner we can get started." He was pleased that his voice did not betray him, and equally pleased that the encouragement worked.

"I will go get it now." Jacobs motioned to the doctor, "Let's go, Dr. Martin."

Dr. Martin, who had remained quiet during the entire exchange, finally spoke. "I need to change the dressing on his shoulder and give him another shot of antibiotics." When Jacobs didn't look sold on the idea, Dr. Martin continued. "You said you need him functioning. Withholding care now will only set him back."

"Make it quick," Jacobs conceded, "Antibiotics only; no more of the pain medicine you have been giving him. Mr. Halden has a job to do." He looked at Neal, "You've been knocked out by the good doctor here for twenty-four hours."

So it had only been a day since the meeting in the restaurant. Since he had been shot. Neal would have like nothing more than another dose of whatever the doctor had been giving him, but that wasn't feasible.

"Well, that certainly won't do," Neal said, aiming for levity he did not feel, "I can't very well verify a painting if I am unconscious." He looked at the doctor, "You heard the man. Make it quick. I got a job to do."


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you to all those who are following this story and also those of you who take the time to post a review. It pleases me beyond measure to receive them! _

_I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Six **

Jacobs, encouraged by the idea that he might be well on his way to freedom and more importantly safety, took the opportunity to make some arrangements for his departure. It was clear that he didn't want to be overheard; he left the doctor to his business and went into the kitchenette area to make his calls. He kept his conversation low.

Dr. Martin helped ease his patient back down into the bed. He had withheld judgment of the man in the beginning but now he had made a judgment. Unlike most of the people he had been forced to patch up, this man was intelligent. He seemed to be very aware of who he was dealing with. Halden had picked up immediately that Jacobs had no patience with his injury and had acted accordingly. Whether this was because of some prior relationship with Jacobs or some other reason, Dr. Martin wasn't sure. He had watched the man's interaction with Jacobs over the past few minutes. He had come across as if he was more than able to continue the business arrangement the two men had started before the shooting. Jacobs had bought it, probably because that was exactly what he wanted to believe. But Dr. Martin hadn't bought it for a minute. He didn't buy it because he had treated the man's injuries and knew how he had been responding to treatment over the past several hours. He knew the physical shape he was in.

The man was skilled at schooling his facial expressions; Dr. Martin had picked up on that fairly quickly. But controlling one's body language, especially in the man's current condition, was not so easy. As the conversation had taken place, he had watched that language instead. Halden was not able to hide the feverish glow in his cheeks, or to keep the heat from radiating from his body. He had not been able to control the sheen of sweat that had covered his skin, or the tremble in his hands he disguised by grasping the blanket that covered him. He was feverish, weak and in what Dr. Martin knew was considerable pain. But despite the rough start, his voice had been amazingly strong and steady. The man had projected confidence in his ability to deliver what Jacobs wanted as if his life depended on it. And it probably had, Dr. Martin thought. Perhaps both of their lives had.

The interaction with Jacobs had clearly exhausted the man and he now rested quietly against the pillow. The doctor began his examination by gently pulling the dressing away from the wound. With the fever the man was running, he wasn't surprised at the redness and swelling. He pressed tentatively around the area, eyes going to the man's face when he heard the sharp intake of breath. The mask of calm had momentarily slipped and perhaps sensing that, the man closed his eyes. Dr. Martin continued his examination, listening to the man's breathing and checking his pulse. In spite of the man's relaxed pose and stillness, his respiration and pulse were both elevated. Lastly, the doctor confirmed with a thermometer what he was already certain was true. When he looked at the reading, the sound he made was a mixture of frustration and concern.

His reaction prompted the young man's eyes to open. There was pain, and also concern, in the blue eyes. In spite of all his acting to the contrary, Dr. Martin thought, the man knew he wasn't doing well. His look requested information.

"101.5," Dr. Martin explained quietly, watching the man closely. "Are you in much pain?" He knew the answer but wasn't surprised by the man's initial response.

"I'm fine," he answered firmly, but with a glance at Jacobs, who was still talking on the phone, he dropped the volume and added "I _have_ to be."

"I understand," Martin nodded. He had known what the young man was playing at since he opened his eyes. He began to clean the wound with an antiseptic solution. "Have you…um….worked with Jacobs before?"

"No, this is my first experience with him." The man's voice was tense, the pain of the doctor's efforts showing on his face. Dr. Martin continued to talk as he worked, trying to provide as much of a distraction as he could.

"And not a pleasant one, I see." So Halden didn't know Jacob's personally, he thought. He must have picked up on his cruel streak some other way. After a moment, the doctor smiled.

"So, how long were you lying there before you opened your eyes?"

The man returned his smile with a weak one of his own "Long enough to know we were both in trouble if I didn't." Sweat hung in a thin layer on his skin, and the doctor could feel a tremble beneath his fingers as he continued his work. As much as Halden wanted to go through with the deal, Martin doubted he would be able to do it. He doubted he could even stand on his feet. He finished his task and proceeded to re-bandage the wound.

"Look, Halden," he said when he had finished, "you've put on a good show, but I think we both know you aren't going to be able to see this thing through in your condition." He gestured at the man's prone position.

"My condition will only get worse if I don't," the man answered simply "As will yours. You've apparently worked with Jacobs long enough to know that."

Dr. Martin knew the man was right. He didn't have much of a choice. Neither of them did. He glanced again towards the other room.

"Well, if you plan on going through with this, and you don't want to end up passing out on the floor, you are going to need these." He produced a bottle of medication from his bag. At the reluctant look on the man's face, he continued quickly, keeping his voice low, "This is a generic form of Vicodin. At this dosage," he withdrew two tablets, "and your level of pain, you will be lucky if it knocks the edge off enough so you can function."

The man shook his head slightly, "I can't be out of commission or that will be the end of me."

Employing his most matter-of-fact voice, the doctor spoke: "Take a look at yourself, Mr. Halden," he shook his head sadly, "you are almost out of commission right now."

Dr. Martin could tell the man's first reaction was to protest, but after a moment the look of denial evaporated from the blue eyes. Maybe Halden was just too tired to argue when he knew the doctor was speaking the truth. His words confirmed the doctor's observation.

"I know," the man admitted reluctantly. There was no attempt this time to keep his voice strong. In fact, the words were barely more than a whisper, "And I am having a hard time with my vision," he closed his eyes tightly then opened them "everything's blurry. My shoulder hurts," he said, "but my head….it feels like its gonna explode."

"That's the fever," the doctor held up the tablets, "this has acetaminophen: a fever reducer. It should help with that, too."

"You sure it won't knock me out?" the man asked, looking in Jacobs general direction.

"I am certain," Dr. Martin reassured him, "It will just help enough with the pain to hopefully keep you upright."

With a sigh, and what Dr. Martin thought was a look of relief, the man held out a shaky hand. He deposited the pills, then followed up by handing him the glass of water from earlier. Dr. Martin helped him lean forward to swallow the pills, then eased him back.

"Two more in the morning," Dr. Martin said, placing the bottle beneath the man's pillow, "You can take two every six hours." He met the man's eyes. "as soon as your business with Jacobs is finished, you need to get yourself to a hospital." He nodded towards the shoulder, "You have some serious damage there and infection. I will give you another shot of antibiotics, but it doesn't seem to be as effective as I would like."

"Can this come out now?" The man indicated the IV in his arm. Dr. Martin nodded. "I will tell Jacobs he needs to bring you some food. You need nourishment."

"While you are giving him orders," the man "tell him I will need a change of clothes, too." He looked at his shirt, stiff with blood and still hanging over the back of the chair, "Mine are a little worse for wear."

Dr. Martin smiled, "Will do." He then proceeded to remove the IV line from the man's arm, pressing a cotton ball over the puncture. He directed Halden to fold his arm at the elbow to put pressure on it for a few moments.

After that, he retrieved the syringe with antibiotics from his bag. This time the needle was injected into the arm instead of the IV line. Halden winced but said nothing.

"Are you about done in there?" Jacob's voice carried through the room as he stepped around the divider. Apparently his calls had been concluded, and he was ready to go.

"Just finishing up," Dr. Martin called back. He looked at his patient, still concerned with the look in his eyes. He hoped the pain medication would give him some relief soon. "I am sorry you are involved with Jacobs," the doctor said quietly "but I hope you can work this deal so Jacobs will go away." He shrugged, "I want my life back."

"I understand. Thanks for your help."

Dr. Martin nodded, but as he turned to go, the man grabbed his hand. The blue eyes met his; there was an intensity there that the doctor didn't think was fever induced. "Trust me, Jacobs _will_ go away," he said, his voice low, "I will see to it."

The combination of his tone and the expression in his eyes told the doctor this was not an act; the young man _meant_ this. And Dr. Martin, who hadn't trusted anyone in a long time, amazingly, did so.


	7. Chapter 7

_I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I take all responsibility. _

**Chapter Seven **

Peter felt immense relief when he opened his door to see a smug looking Mozzie standing on his doorstep. A smug looking Mozzie had news; and news about Neal was the only news anyone was interested in.

"You've heard from Neal?" Peter blurted it out before even saying hello.

"Impatient much, suit?" Mozzie asked, eyebrows raised. "Are you even going to ask me in first?" Peter stepped aside and exaggeratedly gestured for Mozzie to enter. Mozzie did so and began removing his cap and jacket. He seemed to be taking his own sweet time as he hung them on the hall tree by the door. He turned and looked around expectantly.

"Where is Mrs. Suit?" he asked.

"Working," Peter answered curtly, "_Have you heard from Neal?_" His patience after the past hours was non existent.

"No, I've heard from Nick Halden, actually," Mozzie corrected.

Despite his sarcasm, Peter knew that Mozzie was as relieved as he was to have heard from Neal. Peter had gotten in touch with Mozzie as soon as he knew what had happened. He knew Mozzie would be the safest person for Neal to contact for help. Peter's confidence in this fact had pleased Mozzie even if the circumstances had not. The situation being what it was no one had expected to hear from Neal immediately. But when the eighteen hour mark passed with no word, Peter began to feel what had been mild apprehension turn into dread. How bad had Neal been hurt? At the twenty four hour mark, Peter's dread was bordering on barely contained panic.

During the silent hours the search for Jacobs, and Neal, had not stopped. The FBI wasn't the only ones looking for Jacobs. The NYPD was still searching for him, as was his old partners. The FBI and the NYPD wanted to question and arrest him; the partners had other plans. He was in danger; hiding for his life and doing a good job of it. He had gone to ground and taken Neal with him and the search had turned up nothing. Even Mozzie's extensive contacts had found nothing. Mozzie hadn't even tried to contain his panic. The little guy had practically screamed at Peter in his frustration: What if Neal wasn't able to make contact? What if he was never going to make contact? How had Peter let this happen and what did he plan to do to get Neal back? Peter had no answers so he had given none and Mozzie had stormed out. That had been just over three hours earlier.

But now Neal, or Nick Halden, had reached out to Mozzie, just as Peter had predicted he would.

"I got a call from him just a little over an hour ago," Mozzie explained.

"And he needs you to find a buyer," Peter said, "What is the next step?"

"He needs me to locate a _specific_ buyer for a _Gorky_," Mozzie said, "Why didn't you tell me it was a Gorky, Suit?"

Peter didn't know it _was _a Gorky. Or what a Gorky was, for that matter.

"I didn't know, Mozzie, and I actually don't care. What do you mean a specific buyer? What else did Neal say?"

"He said he wanted to me make arrangements with Steve Tannenbaum to buy The Portrait of Ahko for three million dollars."

"Steve _Tannenbaum_?" Peter repeated.

"Yes, suit," Mozzie affirmed, "and I know that is you. Neal told me about your undercover stint as Dr. Magic Fingers."

Peter made a mental note to remind Neal that details of undercover operations were not to be discussed with outside personnel.

"He wants me to pose as the buyer?" That thought pleased Peter but he knew that it would not please Koffman. He hadn't been happy that Mozzie might be the only way to find Neal, and that Peter was the only way to find Mozzie. He hadn't went so far as to explain to Koffman that he, in fact, had to go through Elizabeth.

"That remains to be seen," Mozzie answered, "He also talked about your paranoia, outlandish conspiracy theories and the fact that you have several safe houses set up across the city." The men looked at each other; both knew who that description referred to.

"So this specific buyer of his is some kind of weird composite of you and me?" Peter asked, wondering what Neal was thinking and what his plan entailed.

"I am sure his conversation was being monitored, so he couldn't be direct." Mozzie related. "I think he wanted to let me know to come to you," He paused, "but its more about the exchange set up."

"What do you mean?"

"The meeting place and time are up to us, or rather the paranoid Steve Tannenbaum."

"The meeting place and time are up to us?" No matter the circumstances, Neal always had a way of manipulating things to go the way he needed them to go. But even for Neal, this was an impressive thing to have pulled off.

"Yes, and I gathered that it should be at one of my safe houses," Mozzie paused, probably considering the house he was most willing to sacrifice "Jacobs wants three million dollars in cash and an exchange set for tomorrow afternoon."

"Three million in cash?" Peter tried to imagine what that kind of cash would look like. And people just had that kind of money lying about? "For a portrait of who?"

"Its not a portrait of someone, Suit," an obviously exasperated Mozzie explained "It's a Arshile Gorky painting titled _The Portrait of Ahko._"

"Oh, yeah, Gorky." Peter's dismissive tone only brought further explanation from Mozzie

"Gorky was one of the most influential abstract painters of the 20th century," Mozzie lectured, "A tragic figure. One of Gorky's paintings, _Impatience_, sold at Sotheby's a couple years ago at just over six million dollars."

"And Jacobs is willing to part with this one for three million?"

"Yes, but that was an auction and auctions take time," Mozzie continued, "Jacobs is willing to sacrifice profit for expedience."

"Profits don't mean much when you are dead," Peter remarked, "Jacobs needs out of town, fast." Peter was relieved that Neal had made contact but still had an uneasy feeling. His friend had been shot; over twenty-four hours out of touch meant it was more than a just a graze. "Mozzie, how did Neal sound?"

The look Mozzie gave him was an answer in itself. "A little off his game," Mozzie admitted reluctantly, then added "for Neal, I mean. Not that anyone else would notice. But I could tell." Mozzie wasn't convincing.

Peter felt the muscles in his neck tighten. Tighten _more_. The sooner this meet happened and Neal was safe the better. "So what now?" Even off his game, he knew Neal had a plan; probably a good one.

"He will call me back at noon tomorrow for the time and place Tannenbaum wants to meet." He looked at Peter. "I will need a Tannenbaum and three million dollars by then."

Peter smiled, "I think I can help you with that."

"Good," he said, "We can use Thursday for the meet. I will text you the address. You pick the time. I will be back tomorrow at 11:30 am to take the call."

Peter had heard the _we_ in that statement. Mozzie wanted to be involved; expected to be. And if this was Peter's case, he probably would be. But it wasn't Peter's case.

"You know Koffman and Edwards will have to be here, too." Peter ventured reluctantly.

"A regular suit convention," Mozzie mumbled, "That's just great."

"It is his case," Peter reminded him, "Neal is technically working for him right now."

"You need to stop loaning him out like that," Mozzie admonished "He isn't a hammer or extra shovel, you know."

"It was Neal's idea, Mozzie" Peter protested, "He insisted; He _wanted_ to do this."

Mozzie looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Since when has that ever been a good enough reason for you to let him do anything?"


	8. Chapter 8

_Thanks to those who were concerned about me. My daughter and I were in an auto accident and have been out of commission for a few days. So my chapter isn't as polished as I would like, but here it is. Hopefully I will be back on track and can post the next chapter in a day or so. Thanks for reviewing; it makes me happy. _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

**Chapter Eight**

With a sling immobilizing his bad shoulder and pain medicine in his system, Neal was able to manage the move from the bed to the kitchen table fairly well. His biggest problem had been lightheadedness; it had gripped him the minute he was upright. A combination of no food and having been in bed for over twenty-four hours, the dizziness had lessened after he paused a few moments to get his bearings. He had even been able to manage a much-needed trip to the small bathroom, where he had to admit, his reflection in the mirror above the sink was disturbing. He needed a shower, but the one in the bathroom was not particularly inviting, so he had settled with washing his face. His hair? He didn't even want to look at how one of his best features had suffered over the past couple of days. If all went well, he would be in his own shower within twenty-four hours. He told himself that Jacobs didn't care about how he looked. All that mattered to him was that he was on his feet, functioning, able to verify the painting and most importantly, able to contact a buyer and arrange a meet.

Even unsteady on his feet and with hands that trembled in spite of his best efforts, Neal still enjoyed examining The Portrait of Ahko. Gorky had been a poor artist who, after a series of misfortunes committed suicide just as he was starting to gain notice. This particular work had hung in the Museum of Modern Art next to a Matisse in the exhibit "Twentieth Century Portraits." Even though he was familiar with the artist, Neal had never actually had the opportunity to examine the man's work up close.

By the time he had made the call to Mozzie, or rather Dante Haversham, he could feel his muscles beginning to shake with weakness. It took all his will power to keep his composure and communicate to Mozzie what he needed to know. All the while, Jacobs had been listening to every word. It was reassuring to have someone like Mozzie, who, when push came to shove, could play along and read between the lines and know what to do. Jacobs had been reluctant to leave him alone, but Neal was able to assure the man that he had no intentions of leaving without payment. His insistence in raising his original cut had been the most convincing move, Neal felt sure since greed was something that Jacobs could identify with.

After Jacobs had left, Neal ate the sandwich he had brought and took two more of the pills the doctor had left him. He made it back to the bed just as he felt he was about to drop. Being upright for forty-five minutes had nearly taken him out. He needed rest, or he'd never be able to make it through the meet tomorrow.

The first time he awoke in the night, it took him several seconds to remember where he was. But then the memory came flooding back: the memory of examining the painting, such an amazing piece to be in such dingy surroundings, and the impending meet tomorrow that would hopefully lead to the arrest of Jacobs. He fell back asleep quickly.

The next time it was the pain, and intense thirst, that roused him. He awoke with a start and couldn't determine where he was. He knew he wasn't home; the sheets were rough and the mattress lumpy. That knowledge alarmed him as did the unpleasant smell that surrounded him. He was further distressed to realize the dirty, sweaty smell was permeating from him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized he was in a dingy room; not somewhere he would have chosen to be. Instinctually, he moved his left leg. Not only did he not know where he was, but he wasn't wearing the anklet, either. This caused his panic to grow. He tried to get up, but the movement caused pain that took his breath away.

It was the pain in his shoulder that jolted his memory, reminding him that he had been shot. He had been meeting a man about moving a painting for him and somehow had been shot. Peter had removed the tracking anklet…he stopped; no Peter hadn't removed it; someone else had. He could see a man with sandy blond hair, unlocking the anklet and looking up at him with a smile. Why was it not Peter? He had been working undercover, hadn't he? The other options as to why he would have been meeting a man about a stolen painting were too frightening to contemplate, but still he did.

He lay there, head throbbing and mouth like cotton, racking his mind for a clue as to who the man had been. He hadn't seemed threatening, in fact, Neal seemed to remember that he liked him. After a few moments, a name popped into Neal's feverish mind. Koffman. It was Agent Koffman, and he had been authorized to removed the anklet. He had been working undercover for Koffman, not Peter, to take down Jeffrey Jacobs. Recalling how he had come to be in this situation that he was in fact on a job for the FBI, brought him relief. Other memories trickled into his mind, then. He remembered examining the Gorky, the call to Mozzie, and the follow-up call that would take place tomorrow.

He needed water. He was painfully thirsty, and that suddenly became the focus of his thoughts. He had to have water. He gingerly moved himself, doing his best to keep his shoulder still, arm held tightly against his body, and moved to the edge of the bed. Dizzy and nauseous, he sat a moment, feet dangling, to steady himself. It was a small area; it was only a few steps to the small sink. He felt sure that he could make the short distance as long as it took is slow.

He had made it a few steps before his vision began to blur, his view narrowing as if he were looking through a tunnel. He was aware of the room shifting in his gaze, tilting as the floor came to meet his face. There didn't even seem to be a jolt, although in his mind he realized that there must have been. Even in his addled state, he knew the floor hadn't gently risen to meet him; he had fallen to meet it. He tried to get up, but his body would not cooperate. He could only lie there. Confusion clouded his mind again, and he wondered where he was and how he had gotten here.

Jacobs. He remembered and his eyes, which had closed in exhaustion, opened wide. Jacobs would be back expecting him to complete the deal. Neal had done a good job convincing the man that he could see the job through, but now he had serious doubts about his ability to do so. It was more than pain, weakness and his inability to get himself out of the floor that caused those doubts. He had another, more serious reason for concern. It was the lack of clarity in his thought processes. He had to keep searching his mind for why he was here and what he was supposed to be doing; rational thoughts kept slipping from his mind. This was a dangerous thing to happen while on a case, especially dealing with someone like Jacobs. He had to be able to think straight before Jacobs returned; he had to be able to gather his thoughts and keep them corralled.

There had been times in Neal's life when things occurred that made him feel unsteady and uncertain and caused him to lose his focus. Sometimes it was an event and sometimes it was simply unexpected information that derailed his plans or shook his perception of reality. In most cases all he needed was a moment or two to process what had happened, to re-group and adjust. In rarer more alarming instances, when he found himself paralyzed and unable to think, it had been Peter's voice that jolted him from a place of shock into the present. It was Peter's voice- repeating his name over and over until it registered- that steadied him and helped him regain his focus.

It was cold on the floor, and he felt himself begin to shiver uncontrollably. He wished Peter was here now. But he hadn't been working for Peter, he remembered with fear. It had been the other man. How long ago had that been? How long had he been in this room? Did Peter know he was in trouble? Was Peter even looking for him?

Fear engulfed him but only for a moment. Of course Peter would know he was in trouble. Peter always knew. And Peter would be looking for him. Neal rolled slowly to his side, pulled his knees up, and found comfort in the knowledge that if Peter was looking for him, he would be found.


	9. Chapter 9

_I confess: I had a complete story but I deviated from my original plan. So, input at this point is welcome. I blame it on the head injury lol. Thank you to all those who read and review my stories. I appreciate it more than you know._

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Nine **

Koffman was more than pleased to get the call. Burke had been convinced that Caffrey, if able, would try to keep the operation in play by locating a buyer for the stolen art. Burke had also been convinced that Caffrey would use his own sources to make that happen. As the hours passed, Koffman had begun to have his doubts but now, finally, it had happened. Koffman was instantly relieved that things were back on track. He had to admit he was less than pleased that Caffrey's follow up call was coming in not only to a civilian, but was going to be taken at the home of Peter Burke. He had insisted that if someone other than a trained agent were to take the call, that it should at least be taken in his office at the FBI. Burke had gone through a series of explanations about the mysterious Mozzie, his aversion to all things government, and his flat refusal to meet anywhere but the Burke house. And so that was where the call would happen. Koffman didn't like the fact that his case had slipped off course in the first place, and he liked it less that he was now dependent upon Burke to get things back on track. Burke had been itching to take over ever since he had heard that his CI was missing; Koffman understood Burke's feelings of responsibility, but this was his case. It was his place to see it through, to bring Caffrey back safely and to take down Jacobs in the process.

Koffman and Edwards arrived at the Burke house at eleven thirty. Burke's wife Elizabeth was a pleasure to meet. She was the perfect hostess, graciously welcoming them into her home with sandwiches and coffee. After that greeting, the men were introduced to Caffrey's contact, Mozzie. Regardless of Burke's preliminary briefing about the man, meeting him was still an experience and less than a pleasure. He was strange and almost hostile; Koffman and Edwards were studied suspiciously when Burke introduced them and the man refused to shake their extended hands.

"I am only here because Neal needs me," the man blurted out "and you are only here because the Suit insisted you had to be." He moved both his hands out in front, waving them like a magician trying to make something disappear, "Other than that, you do not exist to me."

Koffman looked at Burke, who simply shrugged. Trying to talk directly to the man about the upcoming phone call was pointless. It was only when Agent Burke relayed information from Koffman to the man did he acknowledge it. Further indication, he took it, that he and Edwards did not exist to the bald be-specked man.

When the time for the call approached, Burke, probably trying to somewhat appease Koffman, suggested to his wife that she not be present. That wasn't received well.

"This is an FBI operation, El," he said, "It should be taking place at the office, but Mozzie wouldn't step foot in the building."

Koffman looked away when her eyes flashed in his direction.

"If you think I am leaving my own home Peter Burke," She said in a tone that indicated that arguing was useless, "You are mistaken. I am as worried about Neal as you are, and I want to hear his voice for myself."

It was clear the woman would not be leaving, so Koffman sat in silence, waiting for the call. He was somewhat surprised at the obvious friendship between the paranoid Mozzie and Elizabeth Burke and wondered how that relationship had ever developed. When the phone rang, precisely at noon, everyone jumped in expectation. Mozzie switched it to speakerphone. He answered curtly, "Haversham." Koffman's eyebrows raised in question, and he looked in confusion at Agent Burke. Mozzie Haversham?

"Time and place?" The words indicated it was the phone call they were expecting; the voice indicated it was not the person they were expecting to be making it. It was not Caffrey. Mozzie was taken off guard and looked immediately to Burke. Burke, with lips pursed, just nodded for him to proceed.

"Who is this?" Mozzie asked, "Where is Halden?"

"I am afraid he is a bit indisposed at the moment," the man answered, purposefully ignoring the first part of the question. "But we can complete the deal regardless. Time and place?"

Koffman saw the looks of concern pass between the Burkes and Mozzie and mouthed to the strange little guy to keep to the script and give the man the information. He understood their concern. He hadn't realized how much he had wanted to hear Caffrey's voice over the phone himself. But the meet needed to happen. Once they had Jacobs, they could find Caffrey. If they blew the meet, both Jacobs and Caffrey would be lost to them again.

"My deal is with Halden," Mozzie insisted, ignoring Koffman's directions. "I arranged this as a favor to a friend. How do I know that he hasn't been disposed of as opposed to simply being indisposed?"

Koffman was growing more frustrated. This was the reason that civilians were not supposed to be involved in bureau operations. He needed the man to do what he had been instructed to do. Everything was in place and once Jacobs exchanged the painting for the money, Koffman would have him. He wrote on the sheet of paper Set the meet and shoved it under the man's nose. Again, he-and his note-were ignored. Koffman looked in irritation at Agent Burke; apparently the only agent at the table Mozzie would listen to.

"I assure you, Mr. Haversham," the man on the phone was saying, "that Mr. Halden has not been disposed of. He is simply unwell and unable to participate further in our arrangement."

"Tannenbaum isn't the only paranoid person you are dealing with here," Mozzie warned, "How do I know that you aren't trying to cut him out of his ten percent? Which I must tell you, I am entitled to a share of."

"Ten percent?" The man chuckled on the other end of the line, "Your friend charged me fifteen percent. I think he was going to cheat you."

"Be that as it may…" Mozzie began, then "Fifteen percent?"

"Yes," Jacobs confirmed, "You get Tannenbaum to the meet, and you take the fifteen percent. "

"What about Halden?" Mozzie asked.

The man snorted. "Halden is in no condition to collect a fee. I will leave fifteen percent with you. You said you were friends; you can settle up with him if you so choose."

When Mozzie looked for direction he didn't look at Koffman; he looked to Agent Burke. Burke gave him a short nod, and, of course, the man followed his lead. Mozzie gave the address and the time just as Koffman had instructed. He followed up with a question of his own. "And where might I find the unwell and indisposed Nick Halden?"

"I will give you the address where you can find him when my business with Mr. Tannenbaum is concluded," The man said, "You will be there, won't you?"

Koffman shook his head vigorous, but of course Mozzie paid him no attention. "Of course I will be there. Tannenbaum wouldn't think of showing up without me." He glared at Koffman, who swore under his breath.

"Two hours," Jacobs said, sounding relieved. "That's fast, and that's good, too, not only for me, but for your friend here as well."

"What do you mean?" Mozzie couldn't help but to ask. "What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything to him, " Jacobs said. "Take that up with the NYPD-they are the ones who shot him. If you don't get here soon, you might get to keep that fifteen percent all to yourself, Mr. Haversham."

The call disconnected, and all three men were quiet. To Koffman, underlying everything-all the searching for Jacobs, all the waiting on a call from Burke- had been the memory of the blood trail at the restaurant. As much as Koffman had tried to tell himself that Caffrey had been conscious when he was helped out and that it might have only been a flesh wound, he had grown increasingly concerned about the man's condition. Caffrey had been injured while working for him; he was responsible for that, and he didn't take it lightly. Hearing Jacobs recap on Caffrey's condition had done nothing to ease his mind. The concern in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Mozzie was the first one to break the stillness, jumping up from his chair, and pacing around the room.

"I can't believe Neal changed his fee without telling me," Koffman was taken aback by the anger in his voice. "Ten percent to fifteen percent is quite a jump."

"Are you serious?" Koffman asked, looking at the bald man in astonishment, "After that conversation you are worried about what percent Caffrey charged Jacobs?"

"It's the principle," Mozzie defended, voice rising "The initial contact gets ten percent and the second contact, in this case, me, gets ten percent of that. This deal would slight me by fifteen thousand dollars."

"You do realize," Koffman continued, still in disbelief by the man's reaction "that this deal is hypothetical, don't you? Caffrey is undercover; he isn't actually collecting a fee for brokering this deal, and you…."

Burke's wife held up a hand, giving Koffman with a warning look that stopped his speech before he could finish his thought. She approached the pacing man, reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Mozzie," her voice was soft and full of understanding. The man stopped and turned to face her, the anger disappearing from his face.

"He's never been unable to collect a fee, in all the time I've known him."

"I know," she answered "but they'll find Neal, Mozzie; they will find him and bring him home." She shot a look at the men who were now standing around her dining room table. "Isn't that right?"

Koffman had picked up from the beginning that Agent Burke took his role as Caffrey's handler very seriously, but he now realized the relationship went further than that. The morning at the Burke home had made it clear that the CI wasn't Caffrey here; he was Neal. Burke's unwillingness to stay out of the case wasn't about agency territorial issues; somehow the man had become a member of the Burke family. The look on Elizabeth Burke's face and the tone in her voice indicated there was only one answer that she would accept.

"Yes ma'am," Koffman answered firmly, "We will find Neal and bring him home." He looked at Mozzie. "Are you ready Mr. Haversham?"

"Let's go," the bald man answered with a nod. Apparently Koffman was no longer invisible. For some reason, that pleased him more than it should have.


	10. Chapter 10

_Having deviated from my original story line, it took a bit longer than usual to complete this chapter. Usually stories are complete, and I just edit and polish each chapter as I go. I don't know how you folks write chapter by chapter: you are better writers and much more creative than I! After the next chapter, I should be mostly back on track. Thank you to all who are reading and reviewing. _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

**Chapter Ten **

The only thing more surprising than Koffman's offer to let him attend the meet as Steve Tannenbaum was Peter's refusal of it. When Mozzie had appeared on his doorstep with the news of Neal's call, Peter had all intentions of insisting that Koffman let him attend the meet. He didn't think Koffman would like it, but he felt that he would be able to apply enough pressure to get his way in the end. After all, Neal had fallen into trouble under Koffman's watch, and Peter could tell that fact bothered the young agent. But now that he had learned that Neal wouldn't be attending the meet but had been left behind, injured, at another location, Peter wanted to be elsewhere. He wanted to be mobile; able to get to Neal the minute his location was revealed. It was for this reason he had declined the offer to be a part of the exchange and subsequent arrest of Jeffrey Jacobs.

Mozzie was in agreement with Peter's decision even though it meant that he would be working closely with another Suit. Once the decision had been made, Mozzie began to converse with Agent Koffman without a translator, instructing him on the finer points of portraying a paranoid millionaire while purchasing a stolen painting from a murderer. Regardless of how the man acquired such knowledge, listening to Mozzie was still an education. Peter had learned that already; Koffman was learning it now. It was very un-Mozzie-like for the man to speak so openly about his obvious experience in such matters. The words allegedly, theoretically and hypothetically had been used quite often. Peter realized that it was Mozzie's determination to help Neal that had overridden his aversion to working with what he referred to as the Suit Convention.

Peter had to give Koffman credit as well. After his initial protest about the phone call being taken at the Burke house, his concern had shifted from protocol to getting Neal back safety. That had prompted a hug from Elizabeth, much to the young agent's discomfort and made a difference in Mozzie's attitude toward him as well. As much as he wanted to nail Jacobs, he kept the focus on recovering Neal. To do so, he was willing to walk into an undercover operation with a man whose real name he didn't even know and who obviously had a questionable background. He hadn't asked how Mozzie knew the things he knew, or how he had access to a place like the one set for the meet. During the preparation, Koffman had dealt with Mozzie's strange habits remarkably well. He even patiently listened as Mozzie rattled on in the nervous way that only Mozzie could about conspiracy theories and covert operations.

After counting out his fifteen percent of the three million dollars and placing it in a separate bag-to make the payment process faster-Mozzie took the opportunity to educate Koffman on the painting they were supposed to be purchasing. Anyone buying the Portrait of Ahko, he explained, should know something about both the work and the man who painted it. Peter sighed heavily, already having experienced Mozzie's apparent passion on the subject.

Mozzie began in his usual dramatic way, "The story of Arshile Gorky is one of a life marred by tragedy that gave birth to artistic brilliance." With only forty-five minutes before the meet, Peter hoped it would be the abridged version. The story was a sad one; Peter had to admit. Abandoned by his father at the age of four, Gorky had lost his mother when he was only fifteen. At seventeen, he had found his way to America, changed his name and reinvented himself. Having little formal art training, the man had taught himself by copying masters such as Cézanne and Picasso. It was through his art that he expressed himself. His works found their way into many art shows, galleries, and museums.

"Neal has always been fascinated by Gorky," Mozzie continued, "I guess he kind of identified with him, especially with the loss of his parents." He zipped the last duffel bag containing the payment money. It had taken three to hold three million dollars. "It hard for a kid to have to start over on his own like that."

Koffman's look held curiosity; Peter knew he was wondered why Neal would identify with the artist. Peter could see many reasons. Neal had been in essence without parents from an early age and completely on his own by eighteen. Like Gorky, he had changed his name and reinvented himself, starting a new life on his own. Unfortunately, although he too expressed himself through his painting and possessed the skill to be an artist, he had chosen a different use for his talent. His works, which Peter was certain hung in many galleries, where under someone else's name. Neal, too, had copied the masters; but as a forger.

"So Caffrey identified with the man?" Koffman directed his question to the bald man, inviting him to elaborate. Caffrey's brilliant mind had landed him the opportunity to serve out a prison sentence working for the FBI, but there was obviously more to the man than that. It took more than criminal brilliance and a winning smile to earn a place in the family of your FBI handler. Not to mention earning the trust of someone like Mozzie, who trusted no one.

"Neal has sympathy for people who start their lives without parents," Mozzie met Peter's eyes, "We both do."

"Yeah, I can see that about him," Koffman nodded, remembering his first meeting with Neal Caffrey. He looked at Peter, "It was when I told him about the boys that he was determined to be a part of the operation."

Peter had known that was the turning point as well; he had seen the look in Neal's eyes and the almost imperceptible way he clenched his jaw. It wasn't the first time that Peter had seen Neal become emotionally invested in cases involving parents and children. Especially fathers and sons. It was one of the few things that shook the usually unflappable CI.

"I've told Neal its okay that he and Gorky have similar talents and starting places," Mozzie remarked, "as long as their endings are different."

At Peter's questioning look, he explained, "He hung himself in despair at the age of forty-four. In spite of his efforts and his talents nothing ever went right for the man." Mozzie shrugged, "I told you before, Suit, a tragic figure."

"Well, Neal Caffrey isn't going to become a tragic figure on my watch," Koffman said firmly. He looked at Peter, "You ready?" At Peter's affirmative nod, he gaze found Mozzie.

"Okay, Mr. Haversham," He picked up two of the duffels and Mozzie, following his lead, picked up the other, "Let go buy a painting."

"Not just a painting," Mozzie corrected, "_A Gorky_."


	11. Chapter 11

_Reviews make me happy (as long as they are nice ones) and that is good since I am doing this chapter by chapter and could use the encouragement. _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Eleven**

Jeffrey Jacobs had arrived, along with his companion, let himself in as he had been instructed and exited the cargo elevator. Mozzie and Koffman, AKA Mr. Haversham and Steve Tannenbaum, were waiting for them.

The fact that Jeffrey Jacobs looked tired gave Koffman some satisfaction. The pressure and stress of hiding from so many people out to do him harm had taken a toll on the man. Some of those looking for him wanted to harm him legally; others physically. Koffman wanted to do both. He looked tired and not nearly as well dressed as he had been when Koffman watched him enter the restaurant to meet with Nick Halden. His companion was the same man who had attended that original meeting, but already looking like he had been ridden hard and put up wet; Koffman couldn't detect any changes in his appearance.

Jacobs looked around the room. "This doesn't look like the kind of place that a millionaire would choose as a meeting place."

"Which is precisely the reason Mr. Tannenbaum chose it," Mozzie answered cooly.

"Haversham, I presume," Jacobs said, recognizing Mozzie's voice from the telephone call.

Mozzie nodded towards the bag Jacob's companion was holding, "I suppose that is the painting Mr. Tannenbaum would like to acquire?"

Jacobs reached down into the portfolio bag, lifting the painting out a few inches. He looked at Koffman. "You have my money?"

"This way," Mozzie said, turning and moving toward a large table. It was there he and Koffman had placed the duffels containing the payment money. The men followed him, and the companion placed the bag on the table as well.

"Time is of the essence," Jacobs said, nodding to the bags "but I still want to count it."

"I'm hurt," Mozzie replied sarcastically, "Since time is of the essence, I took the liberty of having Tannebaum keep the fifteen percent fee separate," he smiled, indicating a bag with a red tag hung on the handle.

"Good. That means I only have to make sure my 2.55 million is here," Jacobs replied. He nodded to his partner who began to unload the bags, stacking the bills in neat stacks, lining them up across the table.

Koffman, who had remained quiet and let Mozzie do the talking finally spoke. He motioned toward the portfolio bag that held the painting.

"May I?"

Jacobs shrugged, and Koffman stepped over and removed the painting from the bag. "I have always been quite fascinated by Arshile Gorky," Koffman looked at the painting in what seemed like true admiration. "He was quite a tragic figure, you know." He looked up and saw a mix of pride and amusement cross Mozzie's face.

"Yes," Jacobs snorted, "apparently everyone is fascinated by the man. Halden was hardly able to stand up last night, and he went on for twenty minutes about him." He shook his head, "Believe me, I understand the concept of reinventing oneself, but who chooses Arshile as a name?"

Neal, like Mozzie, apparently had felt compelled to educate Jacobs on the life of Arshile Gorky. "Speaking of Halden," Koffman ventured, "I had expected to see him here, but I heard he was unwell."

Koffman had finished lining up the fifty-one packs of currency in two neat, and now apparently had decided to audit several stacks. Koffman knew It was to make sure the stacks all contained the correct denominations.

"I'm afraid he is quite unwell," Jacobs confirmed, pulling out six of the stacks and handing half of them to his partner. "I found him on the floor this morning half out of his mind, going on again about this Gorky fellow" He began to flip through his stacks, "he was hung up on how the father ran out on his family to save his own skin," he shook his head and smiled at Koffman. "I think Halden has some daddy issues myself."

"What makes you say that?" Mozzie spoke sharply, and Koffman looked quickly up at the man. Mozzie had remained cool and in character until now. Hearing his friend had been found on the floor, and delirious had put an anxious tone in his voice.

Apparently Jacobs didn't notice. "Because half the time he was talking about Gorky and the rest, I'm pretty sure he was talking about himself." He looked at his partner, who nodded. Both men began to pack the money back into the bags. "Looks like it's all here," Jacobs said, then to Koffman, "Enjoy your painting, Mr. Tannenbaum."

"This means our business is complete," Mozzie said not waiting for Koffman to reply. "Tell me where I can find Nick Halden."

Jacobs looked at Mozzie in mild amusement. "You really going to split that money with him?"

"I told you," Mozzie shrugged, "we are friends."

"860 4th Street South," Jacobs supplied. "Halden is in apartment 4B."

Mozzie looked at Koffman, raising his eyebrows. Koffman took the cue.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Jacobs." he said.

"That's it," Edwards said, opening the door to the van and stepping out. Two agents accompanied him, joining the officers waiting outside. "Let's go get Jacobs."

Peter looked at the technician minding the headset. "Have medical support meet us at that address," He looked at Jones, "Let's go get Neal."

"Federal Agents, Open up!" Peter shouted, rapping loudly three times on the door. As impatient as he was to get inside, he paused a moment. He listened for the sound of alarm, scuttling or movement from inside that would indicate that Neal was not alone. Hearing nothing, he nodded to Jones and reached to turn the knob. It turned easily beneath his fingers, and he shoved it open, he and Jones both burst into the room with weapons drawn.

The studio apartment was small and open; he spotted Neal immediately. He was in a bed positioned off the right from the main area. He couldn't see his face; his head was turned away, and the blankets were tucked beneath his chin. But he was still, and that was concerning. Peter checked behind the kitchen counter and the small utility room that lead from the kitchen. Jones moved to check the small bathroom and closet area. Both men issued a "Clear" and returned to the main area, holstering their weapons.

"Jones, get them up here," Peter said. The medics were outside waiting for the clear to enter once the area was secured. Peter closed the distance to Neal and reached down to check for a pulse. It was there, weak and rapid. He then pulled back the blanket to check his friend's condition. When he did so, he realized Neal's hand was locked onto the blanket tightly, and even though he was unable to prevent Peter from pulling it down, he still tugged at it weakly. His eyes were closed, and his dark hair clung to his forehead.

"No," he mumbled, head slightly shaking "Don't take it away, I'm cold." Peter was relieved that Neal was conscious enough to speak even if he wasn't exactly lucid.

"Its okay, Neal," he reassured. Pulling the blanket back further revealed bloody bandages on Neal's left shoulder. There was also blood on the sheets. "I'm cold," Neal repeated, again trying to pull at the blanket, "Leave me alone."

Peter placed a hand on Neal's forehead and winced at the heat, then leaned closer to his friend, hand still on his forehead. "Hey, Neal," he said, "Look at me."

The blue eyes opened but were without their usual sharpness. They didn't rest on Peter's face but roamed around the room in vague curiosity, as if he was uncertain as to where he was or what he was doing there.

"Neal," Peter said again. Confused blue eyes found his. "It's me, its Peter,"

"Peter?" Neal whispered, his brows furrowing as if not convinced that it was Peter leaning over him. He blinked his eyes as if his vision was unclear. "Is that really you?"

"Yes, it's really me," Peter nodded, "Medics are on their way up. We've come to get you out of here."

"Peter," his voice was clearer "I never asked him for anything, and I begged him," his eyes were filled with anguish, "begged him and he just left."

"Who, Jacobs?" Even as he said it, Peter couldn't see Neal begging Jacobs for anything, disoriented or not.

"My dad," Neal clarified, "I begged him to do the right thing, but he wouldn't."

It was suddenly clear to Peter what was on Neal's mind. Jacobs had said he was upset about fathers and Neal had good reason to be upset with his own. He and Peter both had reason to be upset with James Bennett.

"Neal," Peter tried to put Neal's fevered mind to rest, "that's all over. Don't worry about that now, okay?" Peter glanced back towards the hallway where he heard the clatter of the rescue workers finally getting their equipment up the narrow stairs.

"All because I had to go looking for him," he said, "Why did I even do that? It's all my fault."

"Sons need their fathers," Peter answered simply, trying to give absolution "They want someone to guide them and help them in life. It understandable that you wanted to find him." Peter didn't know why he was trying to wax philosophical with a delirious man, but the guilt and regret in Neal's eyes demanded that he did. He just wanted him to know that he understood why he had brought James Bennett into their lives.

"But I already had all that," Neal said desperately. Peter was certain that the blue eyes gained focus, "I had _you_. And I lost it." His words, in addition to the look in his eyes, struck Peter to the core.

"You haven't lost anything, Neal." His voice was firm; James Bennett had set in motion things that changed a lot. They had changed Peter's life in a way from which he would never recover. And they had changed Neal and his idealistic dreams of who his father was. They had also changed the relationship between Peter and Neal; Changed and strained it. But they had not broken it. That is what Peter wanted Neal to know. With everything that could be on Neal's fevered mind right now, it was his relationship with Peter that he was worried about. That relationship mattered to him.

Peter looked up as the EMT's entered the room with Jones leading the way. "You need to worry about more important things," He said to Neal, trying to take the tension of the moment. He nodded towards Neal's bloody shoulder, "like getting well. The EMT's will get you to the hospital, and they will fix you up."

Peter hoped that it was relief that caused Neal to visibly relax, closing his eyes and letting out the breath he had been holding. He then opened his eyes as if the moment had given him renewed strength.

"Okay, then" he said, looking at Peter weakly. He took a shuddering breath "I need a shower and a change of clothes. I can't go anywhere like this."

Peter couldn't help but smile. Regardless of the circumstances, Neal's vanity was intact. For the first time since he entered the room, he was sure his friend would be okay.

"You're going to the hospital, Neal, not a Gallery Opening," he said, patting his friend's cheek gently. He straightened and stepped aside as the medics approached to attend their patient.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sorry for the delay but for the next two weeks, you can expect them. Its a work thing; I promise I have an ending and won't leave you hanging. However, I might not post chapters at my normally rapid pace. Thanks for reading and reviewing. _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

**Chapter Twelve **

Peter stepped back as the medics entered the apartment. They were rolling the stretcher; their equipment sitting on top of it. Jones had briefed them on the way up, and they didn't even pause to let Peter flash his badge. Quickly they approached Neal, whose eyes had just closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. There was the usual sense of urgency as they began to assess his condition.

"Are you with us, Mr. Caffrey?" Neal grunted his answer as the medic slipped the blood pressure cuff on his arm. The man then placed stethoscope earpieces in his ears, squeezed the pump rapidly, stopped, and let the air out slowly.

"Eighty over fifty-eight," he said to his partner, and then to Neal, "How are you feeling?" Weak eyes opened.

"Smelly," was Neal's reply, "I really need a shower." Apparently he was still obsessing over hygiene issues, Peter thought.

"They'll get you cleaned up soon," the medic chuckled. "Are you in any pain?"

"Mmmm, yeah," Neal admitted almost reluctantly, "some."

"Can you tell me where you are experiencing pain?"

"My chest…arm," Neal mumbled "my head hurts, too."

The medic checked Neal's pupils. "Are you allergic to any medications that you are aware of?"

There was no answer, "Mr. Caffrey," the medic leaned close to Neal's face

"Are you allergic to any medications?"

"No," Peter answered for him. "He has no allergies." The medic looked at him; eyebrows raised. "He's my partner," Peter explained. Neal's eyes had closed again. The medic looked at his coworker who spoke quietly.

"Weak and rapid pulse, body temp 103.1. We need to cool him down and push some fluids, stat."

"I don't think we can maneuver those stairs with the IV-Let's get him to the squad," the first man answered. The two men positioned Neal and then, at the count of one, two, three, transferred him from the bed to the stretcher. The movement brought Neal's eyes open and caused a groan of pain to escape his lips. The fevered eyes looked uncertain.

"Take it easy, Mr. Caffrey," the medic said soothingly "We are going to get you something for pain as soon as we get you downstairs. Just hang in there."

Peter barely heard the question; Neal's voice was so faint, "Where's Peter?"

"I'm here, Neal," Peter said, raising his voice so that Neal could hear over the clatter of the wheels over the wooden threshold. "I will be right behind you," He encouraged, "and I will see you at the hospital."

By the time Peter arrived at the hospital, he had already talked to Agent Koffman. Jacobs and his associate, Brad Donavon, had both been taken into custody. Koffman was still processing them but had called to check on the status of Neal Caffrey. Peter explained his condition as he knew it and that Neal was in route to the hospital.

"How bad was he hit?" Peter could hear the concern in the agent's voice.

"Couldn't tell. It was his left shoulder," Peter explained, "I didn't see it, but it looked like it had been treated at one time." Peter paused, "He is burning up with fever, though, so apparently there are some complications."

"Probably being treated by some drunk off-duty doctor," Koffman said. "I want the name of the person Jacobs had patch him up," Koffman said. "Tell Caffrey I will be down to get a statement from him later."

"Don't rush; It's going to be awhile.," Peter explained,

"Was he conscious?" Koffman said, "Talking?"

"Yes, but he wasn't making a lot of sense," Peter admitted.

"About the case?"

"No, not the case," Peter wasn't going to divulge the topic of Neal's ramblings, even though, after the comments of Jacobs, Koffman could probably guess. "I will give you a call after I talk to the doctor."

"Tell Neal he did a good job," Koffman said.

"You can tell him yourself," Peter said, "After all, it is your case."

A pile up on the highway had made the emergency room a mad house. The accident involved a school bus; the room was filled with upset parents demanding answers about their children. Peter felt sympathy for both the parents and the staff, obviously stretched, that was dealing with a difficult situation.

Even brandishing his badge, it took Peter twenty minutes to gain access to the area behind the door.

"We have started him on antibiotics to fight the infection," the attending hastily explained to Peter as they moved down the crowded hallways, "and fluids to offset dehydration. Cold packs are to help reduce his fever. He'll need surgery to repair damage in his shoulder," The FBI badge had earned Peter time he knew the man really didn't have. "We have sent the order; they will call us when they get an opening." They reached Neal; he was parked in the hallway due to the overcrowding of the hospital emergency room. "We will get him into a room as soon as one becomes available."

Peter was pleased to see that Neal looked a little better than he had when he had been loaded into the ambulance in front of the apartment. He was still pale with dark circles under his closed eyes, but he was at least out of the stiff and bloody clothes. Wearing a hospital gown, the blood that Peter had observed on Neal's chest and shoulder had been cleaned away. The wound had been cleaned and bandaged; two separate bags hung on the stand attached to his bed. The IV was attached to his right arm. He had promised Neal he would see him at the hospital, and he wanted him to know he was there. There had been a delay in his arrival, but looking at Neal now, Peter doubted that he had even been aware of it.

"You are going to be fine," Peter said softly, reaching up and brushing the dull and limp dark hair from Neal's forehead. In spite of the cold packs, his head still felt hot to Peter. He was so still; it didn't seem possible it was Neal. He was never still.

Blue eyes opened and stared in his direction, but Peter wasn't sure they saw him. They were dull and uncomprehending.

"Neal," Peter said, putting his face in what he knew was Neal's line of sight. "You are in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

Neal's eyes met his, and although they were cloudy, Peter saw in them recognition. He was surprised when a smile broke out across Neal's face. It wasn't his usual Caffrey smile, a Neal distraction technique; it was smaller and more genuine.

"Hey, Peter," The lilt of the voice told Peter the promised pain medication had been delivered if not the promised shower. "How did you find me?"

"I always find you, Neal," Peter answered, returning the smile with one of his own, "You know that."

"But even I didn't know where I was," his brow furrowed in curiosity "So how could you?"

"Mr. Haversham got the address from Jacobs," Peter explained. The effect of pain medication on Neal's ability to process was clear from the delay between Peter's words and the look of understanding in the blue eyes.

"Mozzie," Neal breathed, "So the meeting happened, even without me?"

"Yes," Peter assured him, "even without you. Jacobs and Donovan were arrested, and the painting recovered."

"The Portrait of Ahko," Neal whispered, "1937, nineteen and a half inch by fifteen oil on canvas. It's a wonderful piece and the artist ..." Neal stopped.

"Arshile Gorky," Peter supplied, "a tragic figure. Mozzie told me all about him."

"His father left him when he was small and ran away to the United States," Neal continued quietly, "Arshile came to find him as soon as he was old enough."

The subject of fathers and sons was still in the front of Neal's mind; of course, it was that which had brought him into the case in the first place.

"Did he find him?"

"Yes, but it didn't matter," Neal closed his eyes, "I think Arshile thought that if he could find him, understand why he did what he did, it would somehow fix what was broken inside of him." He opened his eyes. There was anguish there that the drug induced stupor didn't erase. "But it doesn't work that way, Peter. Sometimes it just breaks you more."

Just like Jacobs, Peter knew that Neal wasn't just talking about the Arshile Gorky. He was talking about Neal Caffrey. Thinking that Neal felt broken left Peter at a loss for words. Neal always had a youthful look about him but lying there on the gurney, face drawn and pale, he looked like a lost teenager.

"Look Neal," Peter said, desperately wanting to change the subject to something less emotional "Don't think about that; its in the past. Put it behind you, okay?

"I can't," he said softly, his eyes locking on Peters with a clarity that had before been absent, "He didn't just hurt me; he hurt you." Neal swallowed hard, "And all I could do to fix it, well, just hurt you in a different way. Hurt us."

The topic was an uncomfortable one even on the best of days, and this was far from one of those. Peter's own feelings about how Neal's father had left things, and what Neal had done afterward, was still a subject best left unexplored. His feelings, although strong, fluctuated between blaming Neal to being grateful for what he did to save him. The blame he had expressed often; and Neal obviously felt that. The other was much harder for Peter to wrap his head around, much less express. As someone who valued the law it was hard to appreciate a blatant disregard for it, even if it had lead to his freedom. It made him feel like a hypocrite. How could he be a role model to Neal if he accepted that a criminal act could somehow be justified? But the weak eyes demanded a response from him.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter tried to assure him. "Elizabeth said she told you to do whatever it took…" Peter paused as a thought about that. Elizabeth had been desperately worried about him; about his life and his future. She had said those words to Neal, and she knew full well what that entailed. And she hadn't cared. She still didn't care what it had taken to get Peter released, and the charges against him dropped. To accept that for himself he struggled, but he knew full well had it been Elizabeth in his place, he would have asked Neal the same thing. And Neal would have done so, and Peter would have appreciated it.

His mind returned to the kidnapping; no law or procedure had interfered in his quest to save Elizabeth. He had been willing to do whatever was necessary to get her back safely, and he hadn't given it a second thought. Neal's eyes still conveyed anguish as they searched his; waiting on his words. Rebuke or reprieve?

"We are ready for Mr. Caffrey upstairs," the lady's voice at Peter's side made him jump. "He has a date with an orthopedic surgeon." She smiled at Neal, who simply closed his eyes. To Peter she said, "You can wait in the Orthopedic waiting room, fourth floor." The orderly who accompanied her gripped the end of the gurney, readying to take Neal away.

"One second," Peter said, grabbing the rail before wheels could roll. He leaned close to Neal. He put his hand on his friend's cheek, "Neal," he tapped his cheek softly; the eyes opened. "I understand why you did it." Neal's look indicated the ambiguity of his words, so Peter tried to clarify his feelings. Why was it always so hard?

"Thank you," he said with sincerity.

There was no reply, but the relief that flooded Neal's eyes said enough. His pale face relaxed, and a sigh escaped his lips before the blue eyes closed again.


	13. Chapter 13

Doctor Martin was sure even before he pulled back the curtain that the patient in recovery six was Nick Halden. The conversation he had overheard between two hospital personnel had left little doubt that his former patient was finally receiving the medical care he needed. Even though the odds of another 'young man with beautiful blue eyes' with a damaged scapula from a gunshot wound were astronomical, Doctor Martin could not put his mind to rest until he saw the man with his own eyes.

The afternoon had been a blur; He had received a nearly hysterical call from his ex-wife that their son had been involved in an accident. After he had calmed her enough to learn that the injuries were not life-threatening, he had quickly made his way to the hospital. As a fellow physician, he knew he would get more cooperation and have more access to information than the usual family member. After having seen his son and spoken to his attending about the injuries to his right knee, Doctor Martin had received a text message from Margo. Jeffrey Jacobs had been arrested while trying to sell a stolen painting. Margo was upset; Doctor Martin was just the opposite. The only thing that put a damper on his joy was the thought that Nick Halden had probably gone down with Jacobs since he was the one brokering the deal. When he heard the conversation between the staff members and knew that Nick was in recovery, he had to seek out the young man. Again, his position as a physician, even though he didn't practice in this hospital, allowed him to gain access to Nick in the recovery room even before the anesthesia had begun to wear off.

He stepped into the area and pulled the light blue curtain closed behind him. He approached the still unconscious man who was breathing softly, oxygen tubes in his nose. He was pale, but all the monitors showed his vitals were excellent. Doctor Martin had left him at Jacob's mercy, in pain and feverish, in a dingy apartment. Just the fact that he was clean and lying in a hospital bed made his condition seem less dreadful. Seeing him lifted a weight from Doctor Martin. He glanced at the white board on the wall: N. Caffrey was the name listed, but the man was clearly the man who Jacobs had called Nick Halden. Before he could consider this fact further, a nurse entered the area to check on her patient. She seemed surprised to see someone there.

"Dr. Raymond Martin," he introduced himself at her raised eyebrows, "I just wanted to check on" his pause was slight "Mr. Caffrey here."

"Are you family?" She didn't look convinced, "because Agent Burke said he didn't have family." Not Officer Burke, or Detective Burke, but __Agent__ Burke. That didn't sound like a promising development for Mr. Caffrey. It sounded like problems above the local level; it sound like Federal complications.

"No," he said, "not family. Just a friend." He glanced at Nick, who had begun to stir. His movement drew the nurse's attention from Doctor Martin to her patient.

"Mr. Caffrey," she said, her voice raised slightly, prompting his eyes to open.

"The surgery went well, Neal," she explained "the doctor was able to repair the damage to your shoulder. How do you feel?"

He paused a moment before answering, as if he was taking inventory. "I feel good," His voice was faint and held a hint of surprise. Then a smile crossed his face, "Actually, I feel wonderful."

The nurse made adjustments to the cold packs surrounding his shoulder. "That is one of the benefits of Propofol as an anesthesia," She said, returning his smile with one of her own "It leaves one with a sense of well being," she patted his arm, " After what Agent Burke told me about what you have been through the past few days, I think you deserve to feel wonderful. And you have a visitor," She looked at Doctor Martin, scolding him gently "who __should__ have waited for you to be taken to your room."

Doctor Martin had been standing by silently, taking in the mostly one-sided conversation. This man was not Nick Halden, but Neal Caffrey, and from the way the nurse was talking, he was not in trouble with the federal authorities. In fact, it sounded quite the contrary. He recalled the last words the man had whispered to him, promising to make Jacobs go away. He thought the man had been referring to his plans to facilitate the sale of the painting, assisting Jacobs in his efforts to leave town. Now he suspected he meant something much less illegal and much more permanent. The Nurse said something about making sure his room was ready, and left the two alone. She promised she would return soon with something for Neal to drink.

"Hey," Neal said when he caught sight of the doctor, "do I know you?"

"We only met briefly," he explained as the blue eyes studied his face, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"That's nice of you…" Neal began but stopped; a look of recognition crossing his face. "I remember now. You helped me when I was hurt."

"That's what doctors do," was Doctor Martin's uneasy reply. The man had been very ill and he wondered how much about their exchange he remembered. If he was what Doctor Martin suspected he might be, it undoubtedly would be better if he didn't remember much at all.

"Do you work here?" the man asked. Doctor Martin shook his head.

"No, my son was in an accident, and I came to check on him," he explained. "Then I heard that you had been brought in."

The man smiled, "and you came to check on __me__." He seemed inordinately pleased with that, but then his pleased expression changed to one of concern. "Your son, is he okay?"

It was Doctor Martin's turn to smile. "Yeah, he banged up his knee but he's fine." He looked at his watch, "They are probably releasing him by now." He looked up at Neal. "I guess I should go see about getting him back to his mother."

"How old is he, your son?" Neal asked. Doctor Martin was somewhat surprised at his interest in his family. After all, he was recovering from some trauma himself. But there was a genuine interest in his eyes.

"Seventeen," Doctor Martin sighed, "We don't always get along." He knew why his relationship with his son was strained; his gambling had ruined his marriage, and the separation had been hard on his son. "I messed up things," he didn't know why he was admitting this to a stranger, "And I don't know how to fix them."

Neal's voice was quiet; his blue eyes narrowing, "Tell him that and ask him what you need to do. Even if he doesn't talk to you the first time, keep trying," he paused, "He needs you no matter what he says."

Doctor Martin's eyebrows raised at both the urgency and certitude of Neal's words. There was definitely more to this man than he had suspected when he dug a bullet out of his shoulder.

"Okay," he said, watching the man's face relax again at his compliance, "That's what I will do. Thank you," Uncertain how much the man remembered regarding the promise he had made to him, he simply added, "For everything."

"You said you wanted your life back," Neal spoke softly, revealing his memory of their conversation. "You've got it so go find your son and make the most of it."


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed my story so far. I so appreciate hearing from you all! I am sorry I haven't thanked you each personally but work is crazy right now. Reviews really make my day so much more enjoyable so don't be shy! _

_I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility! _

**Chapter Fourteen**

Neal's face broke into a smile when he and Elizabeth entered his room. Neal had just been brought in from recovery. Peter had talked to the on-duty nurse before entering the room and knew that the surgery had been a success. Even so, she made it clear that Neal was in for months of physical therapy before the shoulder would be back to normal. She assured Peter that in the morning, after Neal had rested, and his mind was clearer, the doctor would explain everything in detail, including Neal's care plan and prognosis for recovery.

Peter thought Neal looked pretty good given what he had been through. Of course, Elizabeth hadn't seen him in the apartment or even when he had been brought into the hospital, so her reaction was not one of satisfaction.

"Oh Neal," she rushed to him, grabbed his hand and squeezed it gently, "We were so worried about you." Her eyes left his pale face and glanced at the bandaged shoulder, concern clearly on her face. "I am so sorry you were hurt, sweetie."

Neal looked a little embarrassed by the attention. "I'm fine, Elizabeth," Neal reassured, then at her highly skeptical look, added hastily, "or I will be. They've fixed me up." He looked at Peter as if for help. "No need to worry about me."

It always amazed Peter at how uneasy Neal became when confronted with genuine care or concern for his well being. As a con man, and while working for the FBI, Peter had seen Neal play many parts. He could adapt his demeanor and personality to elicit the needed responses from the people around him. He had seen Neal play the sympathy card: had seen Neal inspire compassion from others to reach an objective. He did it easily with his kid-like face, bright blue eyes and convincing acting ability.

But in situations that actually warranted concern and compassion, Neal became uncomfortable and uneasy. He would minimize or deflect; say anything to turn that kind of attention away. Peter wondered if Neal discomfort stemmed from a fear that accepting emotional support when he felt vulnerable might break the impenetrable shell he worked so hard to encased himself in. And here was Neal; minimizing his condition.

Elizabeth chuckled at his response, glancing back at Peter, who was still hovering around the door. "Worrying about you has become a Burke family past time, isn't it Peter?"

Peter stepped nearer to the bed. "It certainly seems that way sometimes," Peter admitted, a smile crossing his face. If Neal didn't want sympathy, Peter was more than happy to provide something entirely different. "Next time I tell you something isn't a good idea, remember this."

Even though he saw relief cross Neal's face at his words, Elizabeth was not pleased.

"Peter Burke," she scolded, "Neal did a good thing by helping get that Jacobs man off the street."

"I couldn't agree more." Agent Koffman had entered the room with a smile almost as big as the kind Neal could flash. Peter knew the man had taken the complications of the case hard and had felt a great responsibility for Neal's injury. He was clearly relieved to see Neal awake, alert and generally in one piece. Peter was glad he had been spared the sight of Neal when he had been found.

"Agent Koffman," Neal returned the smile although his was less bright and much more weary. "Peter said you got Jacobs. He is going away for a long time I hope?"

Koffman's smile dimmed before he answered, "Jacobs is being dealt with, Neal," he glanced at Peter, his look indicating that he had something to share but not in front of Neal, "I just needed see for myself that you were okay."

"I'm fine," was Neal's canned response, "Don't you need my statement?"

In his usual state, Neal missed nothing; he picked up on the most subtle nuances. However, having just undergone surgery, Neal hadn't noticed Koffman doing something he was so adept at himself; avoiding directly answering a question.

Jeffrey Jacobs had been a part of a larger criminal organization and Peter suspected that some deal-making was underway. Peter guessed that Koffman knew how that news would be received by Neal. Anything less than life in prison for murder would not go over well. It was for that purpose he had agreed to work the case and was now facing months of recovery time before he would be able to resume his normal activities.

"Tomorrow," Koffman answered, "I know you just came out of surgery and deserve a nights rest." He paused, "Like I said, I just wanted to check on you."

His words were accepted by Neal, who did look like he was ready for a good nights sleep. "Thanks," he answered, "that's nice of you. I will see you tomorrow."

Koffman nodded and again met Peter's eyes with intent. Peter took the cue. "I will walk you out," Peter said, then to Elizabeth, "I'll be right back."

"I'm _fine_?" Koffman repeated, shaking his head and looking at Peter in disbelief.

Peter nodded, "A typical Neal response."

"So how is he?" Koffman asked, "Really?"

"Surgery went well, but he's in for a long recovery period," Peter informed. "He won't be going undercover again for awhile, that's for certain." They stopped at the elevator, but Peter didn't hit the down button. "So what deal are you working with Jacobs?"

"That obvious?" Koffman asked. At Peter's look he continued. "He has a lot of information, Peter. They want to offer him a deal to roll over on his former partners. And since they were out to kill him, he's not feeling very much loyalty towards them."

"The murder charge isn't on the bargaining table is it?" Peter was pretty sure he knew the answer even before the look on Koffman's face told him he was correct.

"He wants second degree instead of felony murder."

Peter knew that meant the difference between life without parole and a twenty-year sentence, out in ten if he kept his nose clean. It seemed unfair when Neal had risked his life to catch the man and even more unfair to the children whose father had been murdered.

"I don't like it. And Neal," Peter shook his head, "He's really not going to like it. He didn't go through all this for Jacobs to get a deal."

"I know," Koffman admitted, "and I told Neal his helping us would send Jacobs away forever." He looked at Peter as if he were trying to gain an ally. "But he's got to understand that this is a chance to get a half dozen Jacobs off the street."

Peter sighed. He had been in positions such as Koffman faced now. It was always unpleasant to let someone wiggle off the hook in order to catch a bigger fish. "He cops to second degree; no defense attorney tries to plea it down to manslaughter?"

"No," Koffman shook his head, "he pleads guilty. No trial, just the judge."

"Neal still isn't going to like it," Peter said, "Maybe you should have told him while he is still groggy from surgery."

"I don't think so," Koffman smiled, pressing the down button to call the elevator. "I'll wait until they've started his pain meds in the morning."

Even though Peter hadn't been gone ten minutes, he was instantly shushed when he walked into the room. He joined Elizabeth, who had pulled a chair up next to Neal's bed. His eyes were closed; his breathing deep and steady.

"Is he asleep?" he asked in a low voice.

"I think so," she answered quietly. "He looks so young lying there like that, doesn't he?"

Peter had always thought Neal looked younger than his age, and there were times when he appeared even more so. Usually, it was when he was admiring something beautiful or caught up in a project. But earlier in the day, as he lay in the hallway talking to Peter about things he would never talk about without being under the influence of drugs, he had looked even more youthful. He had said that finding his father had broken him and the hurt in his eyes when he said that was not from physical injury.

"Yes, he does." He agreed, "He always does when his guard is down."

"Its sad that he feels like he always has to keep it up," she remarked, eyes still on Neal's pale face. "He doesn't trust anyone, does he?" She looked up at Peter. "Not with his feelings."

Peter thought about her statement. Neal didn't trust easily, and he had his reasons for feeling that way. But he knew that Neal trusted him more than anyone else in his life. He had told him so before. Neal didn't trust people with his feelings and yet had had revealed some of his deepest ones to Peter just a few hours ago. Neal had a lifetime of broken trust to overcome. It would take time.

"He's getting there, El," Peter said, "He talked about his father to me today."

Peter saw Elizabeth's eyebrows raise in both surprise and question.

"Really?" she looked more concerned for Peter than Neal. The topic of Neal's father and the events that occurred after he disappeared were taboo at the Burke house. She and Peter had opposing views on the subject.

"Neal felt responsible for what James did and all he wanted to do was fix it." He saw Elizabeth look away, back to Neal's still form. "When Hagen offered him a way to get me out, he walked right into his trap."

"Peter," she whispered, "I told Neal to do whatever he had to do." She paused, "I blamed him for bringing that man into our lives, and he knew it. I am part of the reason he walked into that trap."

"I understand," Peter assured her, "Really I do. I understand where you both were coming from."

"But you and Neal…" she began.

"I thanked him today, El," he interrupted quietly. "Not so much for what he did but for why he did it. Neal and I are okay."

The eyes that found his were full of unshed tears, "I'm so glad, Peter, he's lost so much I don't know what he would do if he lost you, too."

Peter remembered Neal's ramblings as they waited for the medics to arrive at the apartment, and the look of anguish in his eyes when he expressed exactly that feeling of loss. When Peter mentioned the things that a son looked for in a father, Neal had plainly said that he had found those things in Peter and lamented having lost them. It had been quite a confession coming from someone Peter thought found guidance more of an irritation than something to be valued.

Peter thought of his own father, and the role he had played in the man Peter had become. Every boy, even himself, felt the pull of the wild side; every boy felt the urge to wander from the straight and narrow. But a strong father who provided consistent love, support and guidance had provided for him an anchor even his the wildest weather. That relationship brought security, taught him how to both trust and be trustworthy. Those were things that Neal had never experienced. He had been a curious, impulsive and gifted young man, on his own, with no one to guide him. Any ship without anchor would be tossed to the rocks in a storm.

Even though Neal often tested them, Peter realized that he had come to find security in the boundaries that had been established. When he had planned to leave with Kate, he had said good-bye to everyone but Peter. When pressed, he admitted that Peter was the only person who could change his mind. Like it or not, his word carried weight with Neal. Probably more than any other person in his life.

Peter himself had made bad choices and disappointed his father growing up. But to his father's credit, he had never given up on him; had never made him feel unloved or unaccepted. His love had been unconditional the way a father's love was supposed to be. Peter had told Neal he was like family and then pushed him away in bitter disappointment. _Consistent_ love, support and guidance; that was what made an anchor hold.

He looked at Neal, still sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling gently in the dimness of the room. Just as Elizabeth had observed, he looked very young.

"He hasn't lost me," Peter said quietly, repeating what he had said to Neal at the apartment. "I know he needs me, no matter how much he sometimes likes to think he doesn't." He squeezed Elizabeth's shoulder. "He's resting El, let's get home and do the same. It's been a long three days."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen **

Delayed by traffic, Koffman arrived to find Agent Burke already in Neal's room. He thought that perhaps he stayed the night, but the suit was too neat to have slept in. He felt a tinge of irritation that Burke would want to be there for the statement, but then he remember that the Burkes were the closest thing to family that Neal had. Neal didn't strike Koffman as the type that would be concerned with closely following doctor's orders. Burke probably knew that and had come by to hear what the doctor had to say himself.

Koffman was glad to see Neal sitting up in the bed, a breakfast tray still in front of him. He had to admit the meal didn't look too appetizing, and Neal had only consumed what looked to be a cup of applesauce. He had a cup of coffee; obviously brought by Burke, who had a matching cup in his hand. Burke was sitting in the chair, leaning forward, engaged in conversation with Neal when Koffman entered.

The conversation ended abruptly, and Burke rose from the chair, sitting his coffee on the tray. "Agent Koffman," he nodded at the bag Koffman carried, "I guess you are here for that statement." He looked at Neal, "I will leave you to it, then."

"I am sure there is no need for you to go, Peter," Neal said easily, looking at Koffman. "Is there, Agent Koffman?"

"Not really," Koffman admitted with a smile, "He knows everything about the case anyway. In fact, without him and your friend," he paused with a frown "I'm not sure what his name actually is, but without them this case wouldn't have been solved and you," he pointed at Neal, "wouldn't have been found."

Neal smiled, "Yes, when you can get those two to work together, they are quite a formidable pair."

"I take it this isn't the first time they have joined forces?" Koffman asked Neal, glancing at Agent Burke in amusement.

"There was that time when Peter went on the run with a suspect and Mozzie had to hide them and….." Neal began, a spark of mischief in his blue eyes.

"Only in the most desperate of times," Agent Burke interrupted, giving Neal a stern look, "and something I strive to avoid as much as possible." His look dared Koffman to ask further details, "Ready for that statement?"

Agent Burke clearly wanted to stop the rest of that story, and although Koffman would really have liked to have heard it, instead he got to the business at hand. He pulled up a chair and opened his bag, bringing out a digital recorder, as well as a notepad and pen. "Okay, then," he smiled at Burke "we will get started." He sat the recorder up on the tray, next to the untouched breakfast tray, and turned in on. After stating his name, the case number, the date and who was in the room with him, he said to Neal:

"Okay, Mr. Caffrey, from the time you walked into the restaurant for the meeting with Jeffrey Jacobs until you were found by Agent Burke and his team, please recount everything that happened to the best of your ability."

It was just less than a half hour later that Koffman switched off the recording. Burke had gotten Neal a drink of water about ten minutes into the monolog when his voice had begun to grow raspy. The statement had been very detailed in some ways; in others vaguer. He had clearly recounted his conversation at the restaurant with Jacobs, the deal they had reached and being hustled into a waiting car after being shot. He did not remember being taken to where he was held; he still had no idea where Jacobs had kept him. He had vague memories of a woman being there, and maybe a doctor of some kind caring for his shoulder. Not surprisingly, the description of his examination of the painting had been vivid. Neal Caffrey, among other things, was a true admirer of art, and the creator of this piece seemed to capture his imagination as much as it had his strange friends. He remembered most of his conversation with Mozzie but confessed that he had no clear memory of anything that happened afterward. He had vague memories of events, but they were in no clear order; he recalled Peter talking to him, but he didn't remember where they were at the time.

"Thank you, Neal," Koffman said after the statement had been given. "Just a couple more things, for clarification mostly." Koffman picked up the pen and looked at Neal. Neal had grown slightly frustrated at the end of his statement when he had struggled to remember what had happened after his conversation with Mozzie. Koffman thought that with a break and some prompting, Neal might be able to recall a few more details. But he was aware that exhaustion and pain may also be factors in his feelings of frustration. "You okay to go on?"

"I'm fine," was Neal's answer though his face had a pinched look that Koffman was sure was caused by pain. The typical Neal response, Agent Burke had explained to him earlier.

"Do you remember anything about who was waiting in the car when Donovan and Jacobs took you out of the restaurant?" he asked, "Anything at all?"

"Nothing," Neal answered, "I remember they put me in the back, and Donovan got in beside me. I don't remember anything else after that."

"Okay," Koffman said, "How about the woman? What did she look like? Did she tell you her name or did anyone call her by a name?"

"No name and I don't know, maybe 40-45 years old, shoulder length brown hair? That's really the best I can do," Neal said, "I only saw her for a minute or two and she was coming at me with a needle," Neal's smile was faint, "I didn't notice a lot after that."

"Was she a doctor?" Koffman asked.

"I don't know. Somehow I don't think so but she seemed to know what she was doing. The way she talked about Jacobs," he paused, "She called him Jeffrey."

Koffman nodded, making a note on his pad, "Maybe she's a girlfriend. I can follow up on that." He looked at Neal again, "What about the man, the doctor? Any name or description for him?"

"I think he was there under duress," Neal said quietly, "I was pretty out of it, but even I could tell he and Jacobs were not friends."

"Name, description?" Koffman pressed. It was his feeling that finding the doctor who treated Jacobs minions might lead to more fish in the net.

"He didn't tell me his name," Neal answered, "Fifties, dark hair with a good deal of gray; judging height is hard when you're flat on your back." He explained.

"Get anything else from him?" Koffman asked. "How he got involved with Jacobs, where he worked?"

Neal shook his head, "No, just that he didn't want to be involved with Jacobs." He glanced at Peter, "But I am glad he was. He probably saved my life."

"We will take that into consideration when we find him," Koffman said, again making notes, "Last thing, do you remember anything Jacobs said or did after you made that initial call to Mozzie?" He paused. "The next day, when Jacobs called back in your place, he was with you in the apartment." He studied Neal closely, "Do you remember anything about that? Anything at all?"

"Nothing clear," Neal said and Koffman could hear an undercurrent of agitation in his voice, "Like I said in the statement. Just flashes and some of them" he paused as a shadow of a frown crossed his face "I am sure were dreams or delirium." He looked at Agent Burke, a faint smile instantly erasing the previous look. "For example, I am sure Peter didn't tell me I was going to a Gallery Opening, but I remember something about wanting to take a shower first."

Burke laughed, "His memory is pretty muddled there, Agent Koffman," he explained, "he was going on about needing a shower before going he left the apartment. I told him he was going to the hospital and not a Gallery Opening."

"Oh, so that what how it went," Neal ran his good hand through his hair. "I still haven't gotten a shower."

"But you smell better," Agent Burke smiled, "Trust me. When the medics got there and asked you how you were feeling, your answer was 'smelly'. And you weren't kidding."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal groaned, "That's a memory I can live without if you don't mind."

Their banter was interrupted by the staff coming for the breakfast tray, who blushed when Neal thanked her with a smile. She was exiting the room when the floor nurse entered. She looked at the tray as she came in, then at Neal with a reproving look.

"You have to do better than that, Mr. Caffrey," she admonished, placing a small paper cup on the table in front of him. "Pain medication is inherently hard on the stomach, especially an empty one."

Neal's look was one of innocence. "I ate my applesauce," he said, "all of it."

Koffman couldn't help but smile at his tone and neither could the nurse. Neal sounded like a child trying to gain approval. The nurse moved into the small bathroom, refilling his cup with water from the tap. She eyed him until he took the medication. She glanced at the two other occupants of the room.

I need to check Mr. Caffrey's incisions," Her tone was polite but Koffman knew she was asking them to step out of the room. Agent Burke got the same message and rose from his seat.

"I'll be back later," Burke said, "Call me if you need me to bring you anything when I come."

"Crostini Napoletani from Babbo's would be nice," Neal said with a smile, "I don't think I've had anything but a sandwich since I was shot." He stopped, looking at the nurse, "and some applesauce, of course," He added sheepishly.

"Bland," the nurse instructed, "that is what you need for the next couple of days. Crostini doesn't sound bland to me."

Agent Burke's expression was one of amusement. "Sorry, Neal, you heard the lady. _Bland_," he picked up his coffee, which was now cold and dropped in the trash bin as he approached the door. "I'll see you later."

Koffman nodded as Burke passed him; then he spoke to Neal. "I got to go, too, Neal." He held up the recorder before dropping it in the bag. "I have work to do."

"The case against Jacobs," Neal said, "It's strong, isn't it? He's going away for life?"

"Mr. Caffrey," the nurse interupted. She had said Neal's name but was looking at Koffman, making it clear it was time for him to leave. He took the cue, happy to avoid that particular conversation with Neal a little longer.

"You did a good job, Neal," he said, pausing at the door, "In fact, you are the best in an undercover operation I have ever seen."

"Thank you. I've had years of practice." Koffman looked at him curiously and he continued. "You call it an undercover operation; I call it running a con." Neal smiled. "You say tomato, I say tomahto."


	16. Chapter 16

_Sorry it took so long. This chapter had to happen to move things along, but it was super hard to write for some reason. Hope you like it well enough. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Sixteen **

Even the Crostini Napoletani with Ricotta and Dandelion Greens that Koffman brought didn't make the news of the FBI's deal with Jacobs go down any easier. Neal had suspected some bad news was coming; Koffman could tell by the way he kept glancing up at Koffman as he picked at his lunch. Koffman was at a disadvantage that Burke wouldn't have faced. Burke knew his CI and would have had many topics of conversation for which to derive small talk while Neal ate. The problem was that the only topic Koffman had in common with Neal was the Jeffrey Jacobs case.

Koffman started a conversation easily enough by asking Neal what the doctor had said, what the prognosis was and how long the recovery was likely to be. This took up a few minutes although Neal seemed to downplay his condition at every juncture. However, when he related that it could be up to four months before full recovery, Koffman could detect a bit of distress in his voice.

"I see a lot of paperwork in my future," he remarked, "or worse, surveillance duty." He shook his head, "I hate the van."

Koffman smiled. Those were not his favorite job tasks, either. "I'm sorry," he offered, "I'm sorry you got hurt and I'm sorry you are stuck with desk duty, or even worse, stuck in the van for the next four months."

Neal put his fork down beside the takeout box and leveled a look at Koffman that confirmed his earlier instinct; Neal knew something was wrong. "Tell me it was worth it."

Koffman let out a deep breath. He had dreaded this since he heard the news himself. He had been relieved to have gotten out of the conversation that morning but knew that eventually he would have to face Neal Caffrey and tell him the truth. The truth was that Jeffrey Jacobs was only a medium sized fish and could be used to land some even larger ones, but he wouldn't do that facing life in prison-he wanted to deal. Koffman had voiced his dislike of the idea, but as they lay out the files of the men Jacob's could help put away, he began to see the bigger picture.

"It was worth it," he assured, making an effort to hold Neal's gaze, "but not in the way that we originally planned."

Neal's blue eyes never left his face. "Jacobs?"

"The FBI's cutting him a deal in exchange for information against some of his former business acquaintances." Koffman knew there was no softening the blow and decided just to cut to the chase.

Upon arrival, Koffman had noticed that some of the color had returned to Neal's face since he had left him with the nurse that morning. Now it quickly vanished, followed by spots of bright red color in his cheeks. It was an indication of how the news had been received, however Neal's voice, surprisingly, remained steady.

"What kind of deal?"

"Murder Two-twenty years with a chance of parole in ten." Koffman just stated the facts. He expected Neal's anger to burst forth, but it didn't. His voice again stayed calm. If not for the splotches of red in his cheeks and Koffman's own intuition, he wouldn't have known Neal was angry.

"Ten years for murder, for leaving two boys orphaned?" he asked, "That doesn't sound like justice to me."

"I know," Koffman admitted, watching Neal curiously. The man could have been talking about the weather, he seemed so detached from the subject matter. Koffman knew that wasn't true; Neal was upset but controlling his emotions. He was a con man, after all. "And I know the plan was life without parole for felony murder, but with this deal, Jacobs can help us take a half dozen others, worse than him, off the street."

There was a pause before Neal responded. The color in his cheeks had subsided, but the paleness remained. "It disappoints me when law enforcement takes the business approach." At Koffman's questioning look he continued, "They say its all about justice but in the end, it just comes down to the bottom line. Let one man get by with murder to arrest a half dozen others. Six is greater than one; Just like a business deal."

Neal didn't sound angry; he sounded resigned. "So are you," Koffman paused searching for the right word "okay with it?"

He didn't answer but met Koffman with a question of his own. "Do you remember when you told me about Matt and Thomas?"

The names of the seventeen and fourteen-year-old sons of the man Jacobs had murdered caused Koffman to wince slightly. He should have been surprised that Neal remembered their names; he had only mentioned them once to the man. But after all that he had seen and heard in the past few days, he knew those two boys were at the center of everything Neal had done throughout the case.

"Of course I do," Koffman answered.

"Do you think _they_ will think six is greater than one?" His voice was soft, but his eyes were not. That answered his question, Koffman thought. Neal was _not_ okay with it. "Will they think their father's life was a good trade for getting half a dozen bad guys off the street?"

"That's not fair," Koffman protested, "Jacobs killed those boy's father; we didn't. We aren't trading his life to make these arrests; the man is already dead, and nothing we do can bring him back. Jacobs is going to prison but if we deal with him he's gonna help us send a few more bad people there with him."

"You told me you made a promise to those boys," Neal reminded him, unrelenting, "You told them their father's killer would be caught and would go away for the _rest of his life_."

Koffman dropped his gaze from the blue eyes that had been boring into him since the conversation on the case had ensued. He had made that promise. He sighed deeply "I know I did, Neal, and I asked you to help me keep it." It was true. When he had gone to make his pitch to Burke and Caffrey he had said exactly that: Help me keep my promise to these boys. And Neal had agreed to do so. He had gone undercover, been shot, and still pulled the operation off to help him keep that promise. A promise that now the FBI had deemed an acceptable casualty in the bid to land larger fish. He looked up at Neal, "I have to go have this same damn conversation with those boys sooner or later." Koffman continued, feeling frustration creeping into his voice. "Do you think I like this deal, that I just went along right off the bat, because I didn't. But this is how it's going to be, and we have to accept it."

"You did ask me to help you keep your promise to those boys. And when I agreed to help you, I made my own promise to them." There was a change in both Neal's tone and expression. For the first time, the young man looked away. "And now we are breaking them." Anger Koffman had expected; even felt he deserved. But he wasn't prepared for the sudden sadness and regret in Neal's voice. That was misplaced.

"You didn't break any promise to those boys; that's on me and the FBI," Koffman said with sincerity. He gestured at Neal's shoulder, "You went above and beyond to bring Jacobs down. No one could ask more."

When Neal didn't comment or raise his eyes, Koffman continued.

"When I came to the White Collar office to recruit you for this," Koffman began, "I just knew you were good, knew your way around the art world, and had an alias already in place." He felt terrible about the toll the case had taken on the young man. Not just physically but emotionally. "I didn't realize that this case would have so many emotional repercussions for you. I'm sorry."

The pale face came up fast, and the look that crossed it told Koffman he had made a serious blunder. The man's eyes narrowed, nostrils slightly flared, and there was a sharp intake of breath. Color again flooded his cheeks. It was a mix of both surprise and anger as best as Koffman could discern.

"Excuse me?" The question was one of disbelief but the tone was so loaded that there was almost an electricity in the room. Koffman tried to back peddle.

"That was out of line; I apologize." It was all he knew to say. He had clearly stepped into an off-limits area.

"Don't apologize," If Neal's eyes had been boring into him earlier, they now were shooting daggers. "Explain. _Emotional repercussions_?"

Koffman had expected an outburst of anger like this when he told Neal about the deal with Jacobs but it hadn't happened. Neal had been angry, Koffman knew, but he had been able to monitor his reactions. He guessed it was because Neal suspected bad news was coming about the case. The remark about the emotional toll the case had taken on him, however, had been unexpected and had caught him momentarily off guard. That had elicited a reaction.

Koffman picked his words carefully. "Your friend, Mozzie," Koffman began, "He told me about this Gorky fellow. He said he was one of your favorite artists." He chanced a look at Neal, who still had an almost confrontational look on his face. "He said that you identified with him, that you both did, because he lost his parents when he was young."

"Lots of people lose their parents when they are young," Neal stated, "and do fine." Koffman could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his respiration had increased with his anger. His voice was tense; defensive. His look dared Koffman to disagree.

"I know they do," He assured him, "But it's not easy, is it? Your friend said you have sympathy for those who grow up without parents. But I think it's more than sympathy; I think its _empathy._"He hoped his tone was defusing the situation. "You know, you feel what they feel? That's why this case gets under your skin. You know what it feels like to be those boys."

Using Mozzie as his source of information had been a good play. Neal visibly relaxed, letting out a long breath.

"It's not the same as it was with me, but I do understand what they are facing." He admitted, looking less defensive but a bit uncomfortable. "It's hard now, but it will be hard later, too. Just in a different way."

"They have family, Neal," Koffman offered, guessing what the hard later was in reference to. "It isn't the same as having their parents, but they won't be on there own, you know?"

"That's good, then," the finality in his voice signaled an end to that topic of the conversation. He looked at Koffman with renewed purpose. "When are you going to tell them about the deal with Jacobs?"

"As soon as the details are worked out and the hearing date set," he answered. "The judge will require Jacobs to give an allocution for his crime, explicitly admitting to what he did and accepting responsibility." He looked at Neal, "It removes any doubt to his guilt in the matter. The boys can be there to hear it if it helps." He shrugged, "Not exactly the justice I promised, but maybe it will give them some closure."

"That's something, I guess." Neal didn't sound convinced.


	17. Chapter 17

_Thanks to all who are following my story; thanks to all those who review it as well. This one is finally winding down; it is my longest so far. I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Seventeen **

"If you are bringing more bad news to Mr. Caffrey," the nurse warned him, "then I insist you save it for another day." She had intercepted Peter before he reached Neal's room. At Peter's questioning look, she continued. "We've had some problems regulating his blood pressure after the other agent's visit earlier this afternoon." She gave Peter a recriminating look. "He is recovering from surgery and needs to remain calm. If you people can't manage to visit without upsetting him, then I will limit his visitors."

Properly chastised, Peter made a mental note to wait until tomorrow to put the tracking anklet on Neal's leg. Always a little stressful for both of them, today was obviously not the best day to do it. Peter asked the nurse for more details.

She explained that, having been alerted at a spike in Mr. Caffrey's blood pressure during the mid afternoon rounds, she had followed up and found Mr. Caffrey in an agitated state.

"He insisted he was fine," she related and Peter smiled in spite of himself "but he was restless, couldn't sit still and was experiencing pain." she explained, "His blood pressure was elevated enough to cause concern." She went on to say that when she explained to him that a spike in blood pressure so closely following surgery could be a warning sign of complications, he had assured her that he had simply had a bad reaction to some news he had received. Peter was certain he knew exactly what that news had been.

"I suggested medication to calm him down, but he insisted that it would not be necessary," she looked at Peter pointedly, "He promised he would do deep breathing exercises to reduce his stress." Her look told Peter she expected deep breathing from Neal Caffrey as much as he did. She looked at her watch. "I will be in to check his vitals again in fifteen minutes. If you are his friend, I suggest you keep him calm."

After the news that Koffman had delivered, keeping Neal calm would be quiet a feat, Peter thought as he entered the room. Neal was perched on the edge of the bed. His legs were swinging and he did not appear to be practicing deep breathing techniques at all. Peter raised his eyebrows at the Babbo's box in the trash bin.

"Who did you con into bringing you take out?" he asked good-naturedly, pretty certain he knew the answer. Koffman had likely tried to soften the blow.

"I didn't con anyone," was the terse answer. "Agent Koffman came bearing gifts. A bribe, of sorts, I guess."

Peter reached down an opened the flap on the take out box. It looked like very little had been eaten. The news from Koffman had probably left Neal without an appetite. "I take it he told you about the deal the bureau is cutting with Jacobs?"

"You knew about that?" He asked clearly still agitated "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I haven't had a chance and besides, it's Koffman's case and his job to give you the bad news." Peter put a hand on Neal's good shoulder, "Look, Neal, I know you don't like it and I understand, but that nurse is coming back in here in fifteen minutes and if your blood pressure is still high, she's gonna dose you with lorazepam or something."

"Yeah," Neal conceded, deflating a bit "I know, sit still and practice deep breathing." He looked at Peter almost pleadingly, "You know sitting still stresses me out."

Peter knew this was true. Neal didn't do still. "Okay," he said, "Let's walk. You up to it?"

Neal's face brightened. "They let me walk around the hall twice today, so yeah, I'm up to it." He paused, "In fact, we can just keep walking; right out to your car, if you want." Peter heard the almost hopeful undercurrent to Neal's suggestion

"Pretty sure the nurse would chase you down if you tried to escape." He nodded at Neal's blue print hospital gown, "And you might catch a cold; that looks a bit drafty."

Neal met his smile with one of his own, and slipped down off the bed onto his feet, making sure the gown was properly closed. He looked a bit shaky, and Peter reached out without thinking to steady him. Neal shot him a look, "I'm good, Peter, I just have to go slow."

Peter knew that admission wasn't easy for Neal who didn't normally do anything slow. He nodded, giving Neal the time he needed. In the hall, Neal held on to the railing that lined the hallway. Peter didn't want to crowd him and chance bumping into his bad shoulder, but he wanted to be close enough to reach out and lend a hand if needed. They moved slowly, side by side.

"So, tell me about Dr. Martin." Peter said, pleased when his question got the reaction he had expected.

Neal looked at him in surprise, halting in his progress. "Who?"

Peter smiled at the tone of disbelief. "I know he's the one Jacobs brought in to take care of you."

"Koffman…?" Neal began a question.

"No," Peter interrupted before Neal's blood pressure could rise, "When Koffman asked you about the girl, you said you didn't know her name." He paused, a smug look sneaking across his face, "But when he asked about the doctor, you said that he didn't _tell_ you his name."

"Which was true," Neal affirmed innocently "he _didn't_ tell me his name." He shook his head in wonder, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Wow, Peter, I forget how good you are."

Peter treasured these little teachable moments with Neal. It was important he realized that Peter _could_ read him and knew at least most of his tricks. It helped keep him honest. Or at least, _more_ honest and Peter would take all the help on that front he could get.

"After all these years I ought to be," Peter mused.

"But how did you know his name?"Neal questioned, looking at him in wonder.

Peter smiled, enjoying his all knowing role. "He came to visit you in recovery," he confessed "He introduced himself to the nurse, and she passed it on to me. So why didn't you tell Koffman about Martin?"

Neal began to move along the hallway again; a tact Peter felt was to avoid eye contact. "He helped me," he explained, "and he didn't want to be there any more than I did."

"What was it?" Peter asked, "blackmail? What did Jacobs have on him?"

"He was on the hook for some gambling debts he couldn't pay," Neal supplied, "Jacobs cleaned his slate; then he owned him."

Peter knew that Koffman could uncover the identity of the doctor even without Neal; Jacobs might give him up during his extensive statements. But he didn't think this revelation would do anything to keep Neal's blood pressure under control. Neal wanted to protect the doctor from the consequences of his actions. Peter could understand well that.

"You felt sorry for him," Peter ventured, "Is that why you lied to Koffman?"

Neal stopped again, this time looking insulted. "I didn't _lie_, Peter."

Peter sighed. Neal didn't lie: he just avoided telling the truth. "Okay, _misled_ Koffman," Peter clarified, "Why didn't you give him his name?"

"He has a family, Peter," Neal urged, his eyes seeking understanding "Jacobs took one father away from his boys; Don't let him take away another one."

It was yet another layer of the father/son theme that this case had presented to Neal, bringing his own unresolved issues to the surface again and again. Issues not only about his relationship with his own father, but his relationship with Peter as well. It had haunted Neal during his fevered hours; prompted delirious confessions and revealed his deepest fears and regrets. Peter couldn't help but wonder how much, if any, of their exchanges on the subject Neal remembered. He hoped he remembered at least the important parts. Reassuring Neal when his guard was down was one thing; facing him in his full on emotional body armor was a different thing altogether.

"Okay, Neal," Peter soothed, mindful of the nurses orders regarding upsetting her patient, "If it comes up during the investigation, I will _strongly urge_ Koffman to let it go."

Neal had witnessed Peter's strong urging on occasion so the young man knew what that entailed; it prompted relief on his face.

"Good," Neal breathed, again moving along the hallway. After a moment he spoke again. "Koffman says that the boys have family, " he paused, "you know, that they will be okay."

Peter knew to what boys Neal was referring. He didn't answer immediately, afraid the topic of conversation would cause Neal more stress, something he was actively working on reducing at the moment.

"Yeah," he admitted "that's what he told me, too. It's not the same as having their father, but " Peter stopped, their route having brought them back to the door to Neal's room. Neal's eyes glanced up in question, waiting for Peter to finish his thought. "but there will someone looking after them. They won't be _on their own_." Peter emphasized those words, searching the blue eyes intently and added softly, "Do you think that will be enough?"

The question wasn't just about the boys and the expression on Neal's face told Peter he that he knew that. The real question was_ Is that enough for you?_

The pause was slight. "Yes, I do," Neal answered, nodding slowly, "As long as it's the right person, I think it's more than enough."

The awkwardness that would have followed that exchange was averted when the nurse appeared. Eyebrows raised at Peter she looked less than pleased, but when she spoke it was to Neal. Her tone was reproachful.

"This does not look like resting quietly and practicing deep breathing, Mr. Caffrey." This brought a feigned look of alarm to Neal's face and he looked to Peter for help. Peter took the cue.

"Resting quietly and deep breathing?" He repeated and then chuckled at the concept, "For Neal? That's like trying to hold back a sneeze; it won't work and could cause damage." He gave a quick nod in Neal's direction. "It was best to just let him burn off some of that energy."

"We'll see about that," she replied skeptically, directing Neal into the room, "Have a seat Mr. Caffrey."

Neal followed her directions and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, extending his arm obediently. They were silent as she placed the cuff on his forearm and proceeded to take the reading. Her look relaxed at the results and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to be banned from the hospital; at least not today.

"That's much better," She announced, removing the cuff from Neal's arm. "Apparently your friend here knows you well," She looked at Peter with approval, "and he knew the best course of action for you."

Before Peter could jump on that observation, yet another teachable moment to reiterate to Neal the wisdom of following his advise in the future, Neal spoke:

"Yes," he agreed, and Peter, expecting a _but_, looked at him in anticipation of the objection he was sure was to follow. However, the eyes that met his held quiet appreciation instead of protest. "I guess I have must have the right person looking after me."

Peter was caught off guard for a moment, and responded to Neal's frankness with some of his own, "And you don't always make it easy, either."

"I know," Neal admitted, looking away "I'm just glad you still want the job."

Peter placed a hand on Neal's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly, "It's not just a job, Neal," Peter quipped, "It's an _adventure_."


	18. Chapter 18

_One more chapter to go and this story will be complete. Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing. I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. _

**Chapter Eighteen **

The next time Peter visited Neal he was in a different room. Less like a fish bowl than the previous room had been, this room was the last stop before Neal was discharged. With a smile, he informed Peter and Elizabeth that he would be sleeping in his own bed by nightfall.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Neal?" Elizabeth asked, beginning to unpack her bag of gifts. Expensive snacks were included, of course, as well as a going home outfit she had Mozzie bring from Neal's apartment. Not his usual dapper wardrobe, but Mozzie had chosen it with the limited mobility of his shoulder in mind. "Maybe you should stay with us for a few days, you know, until you are stronger and more steady on your feet. June is still out of town."

"Cutting back on the pain medication will improve my stability," Neal answered, then added at her less than convinced look "and I am sure Mozzie will be willing to keep a close check on me. He's always looking for a reason to drink up my wine supply."

"That's what worries me. He will sit there drinking your wine and not pay attention. He doesn't strike me as the care-giving kind," she stated, "I would just feel better if you were with us."

"I will be fine, Elizabeth," Peter picked up on the slightest edge to his voice, "I am not a child you know." At her abashed look his tone softened "and Mozzie has a great bedside manner, really" he smiled apologetically, "I am sorry to say that I've had to rely on it before."

As much as Peter knew Elizabeth's concerns he also knew that Neal needed some time to himself to regroup. He and Mozzie had a unique relationship; they could be in the same proximity and still give each other space. He felt that Neal needed that space more than ever right now. It was more than the physical ordeal he had endured; it was the emotional one that he would have to come to terms with.

"Neal's right, Elizabeth," Peter inserted, coming to Neal's rescue and getting a look of displeasure from his wife "He'll be fine with Mozzie." He turned his attention to Neal. "And since you're trading in that hospital gown for some real clothes, I have a fashion accessory for you," The look on Neal's face said he knew what was coming, and Elizabeth knew too. Aware of Neal's feelings about the device, and remembering the way he had blushed when she had been witness to its placement before, she made her exit.

"I will be by to check on you tomorrow," she informed Neal, then gave Peter a peck on his cheek, "I will see you at home later."

After she had left, Peter pulled out the tracking anklet and with the usual wince, Neal straightened his leg so the device could be fastened. Neal sat silently at the edge of the bed as Peter finished his task.

"I talked to Koffman earlier," he offered, a look of mischief in his eyes, "I think he might be willing to accompany me to some gallery events outside my radius during my recovery time." Peter knew that this was Neal's attempt at lightening the mood. The re-attaching of the anklet always cause a subliminal strain between them.

Peter, looking appropriately suspicious, played along. "Why would he do that?"

"He feels bad about me getting shot and about making the deal with Jacobs," Neal answered, "He wants to make it up to me."

"Did he call just to offer his chaperoning services?" Peter asked, wondering if there was more information about the case. Since Neal had been in generally good spirits, he felt there couldn't have been any additional bad news delivered.

"No," Neal admitted, "He wanted to know if I had remembered anything else from the day of the meeting."

"And have you?"

"No, and what I do remember I'm pretty sure wasn't real."

"Like what?"

"My dad being there, but I know it was just a bad dream." Neal looked at Peter hesitantly, "But I remember you, too, Peter. I keep thinking that it was just a dream, too; just not a bad one."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I thought you forgave me, you know, for everything that dad did," Neal looked away, "and everything I did, too."

"It wasn't a dream, Neal," Peter said quietly; he had wondered how much Neal remembered of that conversation, "You and I are good. But you don't need forgiveness for what James Bennett did," Peter said firmly. "You never have. That's on him-you aren't responsible for his actions."

"But I was responsible for bringing him into your life. Just like Keller; I brought him into you and Elizabeth's lives, too." For someone who didn't always accept responsibility for his own actions, Neal seemed more than willing to accept it for others. Peter shook his head.

"That line of reason doesn't hold up, Neal. Look at the people working with me has brought into your life. Fowler, Rice, Krammer?" he nodded to Neal's shoulder, "And that's not counting the bad sort being my CI has exposed you too. Are their actions my fault?"

"That's different. I am a criminal serving out a sentence; it's all part of the deal." That he accepted the unacceptable as somehow part of their arrangement didn't set well with Peter, but Neal continued before he could voice his protest. "But you, all you did was try to help me, to help him, and in return he was willing to ruin your life. He would have let you go to prison, Peter, you, someone who has spent his life upholding the law. I couldn't live with that," he shook his head, "I couldn't ever have lived with that."

"I know," Peter answered, "and that's why you did what you did."

"I am sorry that everything went so…bad," Neal searched Peter's face, again looking for absolution, "I had to get you out. I had to fix it."

"I understand why you felt that way," Peter paused, not sure he wanted to pursue his train of thought. "But Hagan? I just don't understand how you could think anything he offered was a good idea," Peter said, "You have known him for years; you helped me catch him. I don't know how you could have walked into such a trap."

"Really?" Neal's snort of laughter was more disbelief than humor, "Think back, Peter. How did you catch me?"

"My brilliant investigative skills," Peter's flippant answer did not bring a smile to Neal's face. The blue eyes drilled into his.

"Seriously," he demanded, "How did you catch me?"

Peter studied Neal's face; he was serious. Peter took a moment but even as he thought it through, the reason for Neal's question was becoming clear. "I found out what you wanted most of all and I offered it to you on a silver platter."

"Yes," Neal nodded, "Kate. I was so desperate to find her that even though on some level I knew it was a trap, I didn't care. I went in anyway because I wanted to see her that bad. It was all that mattered."

The parallel was not lost on Peter. Hagan had offered Neal what he wanted most desperately; a way to free Peter and Neal had gone for it without regard to the consequences.

"It just amazes me," Peter let out his breath in defeat, "how you can be so good at planning, at anticipating the reactions of others, at having counteractions in place…and then you fall into something like that with Hagan." Peter looked questioningly at Neal. "To be so smart, sometimes you can be so…" he paused, "stupid."

"I know," Neal admitted. His agreeing with him put Peter at a loss. "You would have never caught me if I hadn't fallen in love with Kate," Neal said simply and without any doubt. "When I care about people," he paused and a look of confusion crossed his face, "I get careless. It clouds my judgment, makes me," a faint smile crossed his face, "stupid."

Peter knew it was true. When he wasn't personally involved Neal's mind clicked like a well oiled machine; but when emotionally compromised Neal became reckless, throwing a definite wrench in the works.

"I know it's hard when things," He paused, understanding more than Neal knew "when people matter so much to you that you can't be objective." In those situations, Peter knew he had a tendency to react on instinct and sometimes his actions weren't exactly by the book. When Neal reacted on instinct, most often his actions weren't even in the same library as the book. "You just have to learn to _think_ before you _react_ in those kinds of situations."

"Is that your way of saying I need to learn to look before I leap?" Neal asked; the half smile on his face not reaching his eyes.

"No," Peter said thoughtfully, "I think you do look; you just don't care about the consequences at times like that. Especially to yourself." The flicker in Neal's eyes told Peter he recognized the truth of the statement, having said much the same himself only moments before. "You need to remember that you aren't on your own," He told Neal yet again, "You don't have to figure everything out on by yourself. I'm _here_."

Peter saw the emotion his words of support stirred in his friend. No matter how often he told Neal he was there for him, it always seemed to get a reaction of disbelief from the young man. That was the root of the problem with Neal. He could never accept that anyone cared enough to be there to help him when things went bad. This was no exception, but at least this time the disbelief was followed by gratitude. Maybe the conversations over the past days were finally sinking into Neal's hard head.

"Thanks, Peter," his voice was husky and he looked away in self-defense. "That means more than you know."

"You're welcome," Peter said, placing a hand on Neal's arm to prompt him to meet his eyes again "Just promise me you'll remember it the next time things get crazy and you're thinking about going off and doing something stupid."

"I'll try," Neal promised, then shook his head in concern. "It's just hard, you know, when I'm _being _stupid, to remember _not to be_."

Neal's words, although sincere, made Peter chuckle, breaking the emotional tension in the room. "You know," Peter laughed, "that actually makes sense."

Neal's face relaxed and he met Peter's smile with one of his own. "It's been known to happen." Neal's tone was amused.

Peter gave his arm a pat. "Just come talk to me, Neal. Let me help you think things through and make sure you don't do something you'll regret."

"You mean something we'll both regret, don't you?" Neal asked, looking at him sheepishly.

Peter smiled, "Well, yeah, that too."


	19. Chapter 19

So hard to write for some reason. I felt like I left a lot unsaid, but the time had come to finish it up. Hope you guys like the ending okay. Thank you for reading and reviewing. I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter Nineteen

"A run?" Peter asked incredulously, "You've got to be kidding me." Peter had risen from his chair, meeting Neal as he came in the door. The maid had granted him entrance, and he had been waiting, somewhat patiently, for Neal to return. He was in a jogging suit, sweat visible on his face. Neal was scheduled to return to work the next morning, and Peter had come by to check on his progress. It had been a week since his release from the hospital.

"It was more a brisk walk than a run," Neal answered, stepping past Peter and starting up the stairs to his apartment.

"I should hope so," Peter remarked, following his friend. Peter didn't know how anyone ran with their arm in a sling or more importantly, why anyone would want to. "Are you sure you are supposed to be doing something like that?" he inquired, "Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?"

"This was easy, Peter," Neal answered, "It wasn't a run, really, just a brisk walk," he repeated with a smile. Peter entered the apartment after Neal, who stepped to the refrigerator and took out a water. Screwing off the top, he took two large gulps before stopping.

"You want one?"

"I'm good," Peter answered. "Just a walk? You look pretty winded for it just to have been a walk."

"Brisk walk," Neal corrected, "And I haven't exactly been the picture of activity since my unfortunate experience of being shot. The only thing that has elevated my heart rate has been stress, and that doesn't count as aerobic exercise."

"I'll give you that," Peter conceded. He knew Neal ordinarily had a whole regiment of physical activities in which he participated. He ran. He swam. He fenced. Who knows what else he did with all that pent up energy he seemed to have. Peter saw case files on the table, in two stacks, a spiral notebook with Neal's neat handwriting lying open beside one. Peter nodded toward the files. "I see you've been getting a head start on the week."

"That's why you brought them by, wasn't it?" Neal asked eyebrow raised. Peter had brought them over the day Mozzie had moved from Neal's sofa back to whatever place he was currently calling home. Elizabeth had insisted he check on Neal, and Peter felt like an overprotective parent to just drop by. Hence the stack of files.

"Yes," Peter said, "but I didn't really mean for you to go over them with a fine-tooth comb." He picked up the notebook and flipped back through it. There were several pages full of notes. "Looks like you've got some new observations here. I look forward to hearing all about them."

"Yes, I think I got some ideas at least about a few of them," Neal answered, "Besides, it occupies my mind," At Peter's look he continued, "I get bored. I haven't been able to do much of anything."

"Apparently you can walk, briskly, of course," Peter supplied with a smile that Neal returned.

Peter stepped into the living room area, noticing a canvas on the easel near the window. Along the bottom was a small snapshot of a man, a woman, and two small boys. Everything was sitting out as if ready to go; paint and brushes at the ready, but not a drop of paint graced the blank canvas. "New project?"

Neal joined him, gazing at the photograph, "Yeah, I'm thinking about one."

Peter picked up the photo for a closer look, and after a moment recognized one person in the photo: the man. A younger version, it was the man Jeffrey Jacobs had killed during his robbery. He glanced at Neal in question. Neal shrugged, "Koffman got it for me. He's going to take me to the Whitney Museum to examine a Gorky one day this week."

Peter smiled. Apparently Neal had all intentions of letting Koffman work through his guilt by escorting him all around New York City on various field trips. "Didn't you just examine a Gorky?"

"Yes, but I wasn't paying particular attention to the brush strokes, Peter, I was more focused on staying conscious and on my feet at the time." Neal's sarcastic tone brought another smile to Peter's face.

"The Whitney Museum has a Gorky, huh?"

"They have three, actually," Neal revealed, "But the one on the seventh floor is of Arshile and his mother. It's a memory painting and the one I want to see."

"Is Mozzie planning to tag along on this cultural outing?" The thoughts of Neal and Mozzie in a Museum of Art gave Peter an uneasy feeling in spite of the look of innocence on Neal's face.

"He might," Neal acknowledged with mock insult on Mozzie's behalf, "But you have nothing to worry about. He would never steal a Gorky."

"It's a big Museum," Peter reminded him, "I would assume there are unlimited other choices that wouldn't conflict with Mozzie's sense of propriety." He replaced the photograph on the bottom lip of the easel.

"I doubt he will even come along," Neal admitted, "You know how he is. He tolerated Agent Koffman, but I don't think he would feel comfortable spending a day perusing art with him."

"Look but don't touch, Neal," Peter warned him half jokingly. "So you are going to what, copy this guy's work?"

"Not his work, Peter, his style," he paused, frowning slightly, "At least, sort of. I want to try my hand at memory painting." He nodded at the small photo. "That one was their last family photo."

"A memory painting, huh?" Peter asked, "That's nice, I guess, as long as the memory is a good one."

"It better be. That's all they have left."

Before playful, Neal's voice had turned bitter. The Jacobs case had been hard on Neal in more ways than one. His shoulder injury, although serious, would be heal. Proper care, time, and therapy would restore his shoulder to what it was before. That would be the goal: the ideal recovery. However, dealing with the emotional issues it had brought to the surface was a different thing altogether. He hated to see Neal struggle with his own painful past, but Peter knew the struggle was necessary if Neal was ever to come to terms with it. The goal of an emotional recovery would be a shift in Neal's understanding of why he did some of the things he did, and hopefully, a willingness to make healthy changes.

Ever since the James Bond's file had crossed Peter's desk, the young man had seemed the picture of confidence. He took great pride in his looks, his intelligence and his ability to accomplish anything he put his mind to. But over time, Peter had come to know that Neal Caffrey was not as confident as he appeared to be. His life was much like one of the magic tricks he was so fond of. His flashy clothes, a flashier smile, and high-risk antics distracted from the fact that, on some level, Neal was insecure about who he was as a person. He had more confidence than was healthy in his abilities. His insecurity was in his value as a person _apart_ from those abilities. Even now, Neal struggled with self worth and reacted in surprise when someone seemed to care about him. He never expected it and didn't know how to respond when it happened.

"Neal," Peter began, but Neal interrupted him.

"Its okay, Peter, I know things are what they are, and they'll adjust." His voice was edgy, and his words didn't hold much conviction. He took another gulp of water, replaced the top and sat it down on the table. "Koffman said the boys are moving to Colorado. They have family there. Fort Collins, I think."

"That's a good thing," Peter recognized a hint of cautious optimism in Neal's voice, "A change of scenery will be good for them," Peter affirmed, "And I hear it is nice out there."

"Yes, it seems to be," Neal agreed, "It a college town but has a good Arts and Culture scene. The Fort Collins Museum of Art has some great pieces." At Peter's look, he added with a smile "And the Annual Colorado Brewer's Festival is held there every June."

"Well that settles it then; is a good move." Peter was always amazed at the information Neal could randomly generate on a variety of subjects. He was brilliant; his mind was like a sponge always ready to soak up new knowledge and then squeeze it out at the most impressive moments. But Peter knew that this wasn't information that had been filed away in his mind; he had done research on Fort Collins after learning the boys were going there.

"They will be okay, Neal," he assured him, "They grew up with a solid, secure family. They are mature for their ages and well adjusted. They have people who love them to look after them. They will be okay."

"Having people who care about them," Neal glanced at Peter, "I mean really care, that they can connect to; that makes all the difference." He paused, "I think that's why Ashille Gorky was never okay. He was brilliant. He had talent and admiration, but he couldn't connect with the people in his life."

"Connecting is hard, Neal. To connect you have to open yourself up and be honest. That is scary for most people. Even for me."

"Even for you?" Neal asked, "Surely you jest."

Peter ignored Neal's sarcasm. "Yes, even for me. I brought those files over here as an excuse to check up on you. To make sure you were okay. But I couldn't just say that because that would have let you know how I really feel. Let you know how much I really care about how you are doing. So instead, I brought a stack of files as an excuse to check on you."

"And then went on about what a slacker I was being and how I should look over the files to earn my keep."

"Well, yeah, that too. But my point is that it's hard to be honest about how we feel sometimes. You do the same thing, Neal; it's why you have a hard time asking for help when you need it. But it's the only way to connect with the people in your life. You have to open up and be honest."

"Are you aware of who you are talking to?" Neal said with raised eyebrows, his tone sarcastic. Open? Honest? Neal Caffrey?

Not distracted from his point, Peter continued, "You promised you would work on it, Neal."

"I know I did," Neal sighed, "And I meant it. I owe you that." He glanced at Peter, then away "I owe you a lot more than that."

"You don't owe it to me, Neal, you owe it to yourself." Neal didn't answer but shifted uncomfortably and Peter felt the awkwardness himself. The open, honest, feeling sharing wasn't just hard on Neal.

"Well, I owe myself a shower, too," Neal said, his smile breaking the tension. "Stitches were removed this afternoon and I have been looking forward to a shower for a very long time."

Peter smiled, recalling Neal's request for a shower when he had found him injured and delirious at the apartment. Now that he thought about it, he had never actually gotten one. He had lots of sponge baths, and maybe a tub soak or two, but no shower. "Okay," Peter smiled, "I will leave you to enjoy your long anticipated shower. Are you planning a brisk walk to work in the morning or shall I pick you up?"

"Can you be here for me about 7:30?" Neal asked, moving towards the hallway and the long awaited shower.

Peter looked at him thoughtfully, with one more parting shot of honesty.

"I can be here for you whenever you need me, Neal."

**THE END**


End file.
